Phor. What, Epictetus in a petticoat! She that disputes love into nothing—or, what's worse, a friendship with a woman?
Cle. The same; and I know you'll confess she's deserving.
Phor. Yes; but the mischief is, she'll ne'er think so of him. If polygamy were in fashion, I would persuade him to marry her, to be governess to the rest; but not till then. Wouldst thou be content to lie with a statue, that will never confess more of love than suffering the effects of thine?
Cle. And have his liberties in the discourse of her friends, that her retiredness may be more magnified.
Phor. Believe me, Ergasto, these severe beauties, that are to be looked on with the eyes of respect, are not for us: we must have them, that love to be praised more for fair ladies than judicious.
Erg. You mistake me, gentlemen; I choose for myself, not for you.
Phor. Faith, for that, whoever marries, must sacrifice to fortune; and she, whose wisdom makes her snow to you may be fire to another. Some odd wrinkled fellow, that conquers her with wit, may throw her on her back with reason. Take this from the oracle, that for the general calamity of husbands all women are reputed vicious, and for the quiet of particulars every one thinks his wife the phœnix.
Erg. You have met with rare fortunes.
Phor. Calumny is so general, that truth has lost her credit. But to th' purpose—what rivals? what hopes?