Zuc. Alas! Fawn, I confess. What wouldst ha’ me do?
Herc. Hang yourself! You shall not marry—you cannot. I’ll tell ye what ye shall do: there is a ship of fools setting forth; if you make[266] good means, and intreat hard, you may obtain a passage, man—be master’s mate, I warrant you.
Zuc. Fawn, thou art a scurvy bitter knave, and dost flout Dons to their faces; ’twas thou flattered’st me to this, and now thou laugh’st at me, dost? though indeed I had a certain proclivity, but thou madest me resolute: dost grin and gern?[267] O you comforters of life, helps in sickness, joys in death, and preservers of us, in our children, after death, women, have mercy on me! 570
Herc. O my Don, that God made no other means of procreation but by these women! I speak it not to vex you.
Zuc. O Fawn, thou hast no mercy in thee: dost thou leer on me? Well, I’ll creep upon my knees to my wife:
dost laugh at me? dost gern at me? dost smile? dost leer on me, dost thou? O I am an ass; true, I am a coxcomb; well, I am mad; good: a mischief on your cogging tongue, your soothing throat, your oily jaws, your supple hams,[268] your dissembling smiles, and O the grand devil on you all! When mischief favours our fortunes, and we are miserably,[269] tho’ justly wretched, 582
More pity, comfort, and more help we have
In foes profess’d, than in a flattering knave.
[Exit.
Herc. Thus few strike sail until they run on shelf;
The eye sees all things but his proper self;
In all things curiosity hath been
Vicious at least, but herein most pernicious.
What madness is’t to search and find a wound
For which there is no cure, and which unfound 590
Ne’er rankles, whose finding only wounds?
But he that upon vain surmise forsakes
His bed thus long, only to search his shame;
Gives to his wife youth, opportunity,
Keeps her in idleful deliciousness,
Heats and inflames imagination,
Provokes her to revenge with churlish wrongs,—
What should he hope but this? Why should it lie in women,
Or even in chastity itself (since chastity’s a female),
T’ avoid desires so ripened, such sweets so candied? 600
But she that hath out-born such mass of wrongs,
Out-dured all persecutions, all contempts,
Suspects, disgrace, all wants, and all the mischief,
The baseness of a canker’d churl could cast upon her,
With constant virtue, best feign’d[270] chastity,
And in the end turns all his jealousies
To his own scorn, that lady, I implore,
It may be lawful not to praise, but even adore.
Enter Gonzago, Granuffo, with full state. Enter the Cornets sounding.