Tyse. Meantime to strictest guard, to sharpest prison.
Mal. No rudeness, gentlemen: I’ll go undragg’d.
O, wicked, wicked devil!
[Exit.
Sir Lio. Sir, the day of trial is this morn; let’s prosecute
The sharpest rigour and severest end:
Good men are cruel when they’re vice’s friend.
Sir Hub. Woman, we thank thee with no empty hand;
Strumpets are fit[92] for something. Farewell. 61
[All save Young Freevill depart.
Free. Ay, for hell!
O, thou unreprievable, beyond all
Measure of grace damn’d irremediably![93]
That things of beauty created for sweet use,
Soft comfort, as[94] the very music of life,
Custom should make so unutterably[95] hellish!
O, heaven!
What difference is in women and their life!
What man, but worthy name of man, would leave 70
The modest pleasures of a lawful bed—
The holy union of two equal hearts
Mutually holding either dear as health—
Th’ undoubted issues, joys of chaste sheets,
Th’ unfeign’d embrace of sober ignorance—
To twine th’ unhealthful loins of common loves,
The prostituted impudence of things,
Senseless like those by cataracts of Nile,
Their use so vile takes away sense! How vile
To love a creature made of blood and hell, 80
Whose use makes weak, whose company doth shame,
Whose bed doth beggar, issue doth defame!
Re-enter Franceschina.
Fra. Metre Freevill live? ha, ha, live at Mestre Shatewe’s! Mush[96] at Metre Shatewe’s! Freevill is dead, Malheureux sall hang: and, sweet divel, dat Beatrice would but run mad, dat she would but run mad! den me would dance and sing. Metre Don Dubon, me pre ye