Brun. O ye gods!
Theod. Do not abuse their names: They see your actions
And your conceal'd sins, though you work like Moles,
Lies level to their justice.
Brun. Art thou a Son?
Theod. The more my shame is of so bad a mother,
And more your wretchedness you let me be so;
But woma[n], for a mothers name hath left me
Since you have left your honor; Mend these ruins,
And build again that broken fame, and fairly;
Your most intemperate fires have burnt, and quickly
Within these ten days take a Monasterie,
A most strickt house; a house where none may whisper,
Where no more light is known but what may make ye
Believe there is a day where no hope dwells,
Nor comfort but in tears.
Brun. O miserie!
Theod. And there to cold repentance, and starv'd penance
Tye your succeeding days; Or curse me heaven
If all your guilded knaves, brokers, and bedders,
Even he you built from nothing, strong Protal[dy]e,
Be not made ambling Geldings; All your maids,
If that name doe not shame 'em, fed with spunges
To suck away their ranckness; And your self
Onely to empty Pictures and dead Arras
Offer your old desires.
Brun. I will not curse you,
Nor lay a prophesie upon your pride,
Though heaven might grant me both: unthankfull, no,
I nourish'd ye, 'twas I, poor I groan'd for you,
'Twas I felt what you suffer'd, I lamented
When sickness or sad hours held back your swe[e]tness;
'Twas I pay'd for your sleeps, I watchd your wakings:
My daily cares and fears, that rid, plaid, walk'd,
Discours'd, discover'd, fed and fashion'd you
To what you are, and I am thus rewarded.
Theod. But that I know these tears I could dote on 'em,
And kneell to catch 'em as they fall, then knit 'em
Into an Armlet, ever to be honor'd;
But woman they are dangerous drops, deceitfull,
Full of the weeper, anger and ill nature.
Brun. In my last hours despis'd.
Theod. That Text should tell
How ugly it becomes you to err thus;
Your flames are spent, nothing but smoke maintains ye;
And those your favour and your bounty suffers
Lye not with you, they do but lay lust on you
And then imbrace you as they caught a palsie;
Your power they may love, and like spanish Jennetts
Commit with such a gust.