Cel. And when the good old spunge had suckt my youth
And left some of his Royal aches in my bones:
When time shall tell me I have plough'd my life up,
And cast long furrows in my face to sink me.
Ant. You must not think so, Lady.
Cel. Then can these, Sir,
These precious things, the price of youth and beauty;
This shop here of sin-offerings set me off again?
Can it restore me chaste, young, innocent?
Purge me to what I was? add to my memory
An honest and a noble fame? The Kings device;
The sin's as universal as the Sun is,
And lights an everlasting Torch to shame me.
Ant. Do you hold so sleight account of a great Kings favour, That all knees bow to purchase?
Cel. Prethee peace: If thou knewst how ill favouredly thy tale becomes thee, And what ill root it takes—
Ant. You will be wiser.
Cel. Could the King find no shape to shift his pander into, But reverend Age? and one so like himself too?
Ant. She has found me out.
Cel. Cozen the world with gravity? Prethee resolve me one thing, do's the King love thee?
Ant. I think he do's.