Herc. The softness and very courtesy of her sex, as one that never lov’d any——
Zuc. But me!
Herc. So much that he might hope to dishonour her, nor any so little that he might fear she disdain’d[262] him. O! the graces made her a soul as soft as spotless down upon the swan’s fair breast that drew bright Cytherea’s chariot. Yet think (I would not vex you), yet think how cruel[263] you were to her. 520
Zuc. As a tiger—as a very tiger!
Herc. And never hope to be reconciled, never dream to be reconciled—never!
Zuc. Never! Alas! good Fawn, what wouldst wish me to do now?
Herc. Faith, go hang yourself, my Don; that’s best, sure.
Zuc. Nay, that’s too good; for I’ll do worse than that—I’ll marry again. Where canst pick out a morsel for me, Fawn? 530
Herc. There is a modest, matron-like creature——
Zuc. What years, Fawn?