Soqu. Yet your word was better than your deed. But steal up into the little matted chamber o' the left hand.
Lang. I prithee let it be the right hand. Thou leftest me before, and I did not like that.
Soqu. Precious quickly.—So soon as my mistress shall be in bed I'll come to you. [Exit Snuffe.
Enter Sebastian, Levidulcia, and Cataplasma.
Cata. I wonder Fresco stays so long.
Sebas. Mistress Soquette, a word with you. [Whispers.
Lev. If he brings word my husband is i' bed
I will adventure one night's liberty
To be abroad.—
My strange affection to this man!—'Tis like
That natural sympathy which e'en among
The senseless creatures of the earth commands
A mutual inclination and consent.
For though it seems to be the free effect
Of mine own voluntary love, yet I can
Neither restrain it nor give reason for't.
But now 'tis done, and in your power it lies
To save my honour, or dishonour me.
Cata. Enjoy your pleasure, madam, without fear,
I never will betray the trust you have
Committed to me. And you wrong yourself
To let consideration of the sin
Molest your conscience. Methinks 'tis unjust
That a reproach should be inflicted on
A woman for offending but with one,
When 'tis a light offence in husbands to
Commit with many.
Lev. So it seems to me.—
Why, how now, Sebastian, making love to that gentlewoman? How many mistresses ha' you i' faith?
Sebas. In faith, none; for I think none of 'em are faithful; but otherwise, as many as clean shirts. The love of a woman is like a mushroom,—it grows in one night and will serve somewhat pleasingly next morning to breakfast, but afterwards waxes fulsome and unwholesome.
Cata. Nay, by Saint Winifred, a woman's love lasts as long as winter fruit.
Sebas. 'Tis true—till new come in. By my experience no longer.