Mart. May not these rascals serve, Sir,
Well hang'd and quarter'd?
Thier. No.
Mart. Here comes a woman.
Enter Ordella veil'd.
Thier. Stand and behold her then.
Mart. I think a fair one.
Thier. Move not whilst I prepare her: may her peace
Like his whose innocence the gods are pleas'd with,
And offering at their Altars, gives his soul
Far purer than those fires; pull heaven upon her,
You holy powers, no humane spot dwell in her,
No love of any thing, but you and goodness,
Tie her to earth, fear be a stranger to her,
And all weak blouds affections, but thy hope
Let her bequeath to Women: hear me heaven,
Give her a spirit masculine, and noble,
Fit for your selves to ask, and me to offer.
Oh let her meet my blow, doat on her death;
And as a wanton Vine bows to the pruner,
That by his cutting off, more may increase,
So let her fall to raise me fruit; hail woman.
The happiest, and the best (if the dull Will
Do not abuse thy fortune) France e'er found yet.
Ordel. Sh' is more than dull, Sir, less, and worse than Woman,
That may inherit such an infinite
As you propound, a greatness so near goodness;
And brings a Will to rob her.
Thier. Tell me this then,
Was there e'er woman yet, or may be found,
That for fair Fame, unspotted memory,
For virtues sake, and only for it self sake
Has, or dare make a story?
Ordel. Many dead Sir,
Living I thin[ke] as many.