Phil. Some ill-favoured woman, that meant to preserve her last purchase, which her want of beauty forfeited, invented that name.
Ire. Thou'rt in the right, Phillida; this inconstancy is a monster without teeth, for it devours none, makes no son wear happy mourning, nor mother childless: and, for my part, I am of opinion that the gods give a blessing to it; for none live happier than those that have greatest abundance of it.
Phil. What is got by this whining constancy, but the loss of that beauty for one servant, which would procure us the vows, [the] sacrifice, and service of a thousand?
Ire. Enough of this; wert thou with Ergasto?
Phil. Yes, and told him that my lady sent for him: but to what intent did you make me lie?
Ire. Thou art so good-natured, that thou wilt pardon such a trifle for one reason; but I have two: the first is, I would fain speak with him; the other, knowing my cousin to be in an ill humour, if he press to see her, I hope she will give him such an answer, that he shall never dare to speak to her more.
Phil. These men have less reason than mice: they would know else how to shift places, and shelter themselves from a storm. If I were a man, and lost the happiness of seeing my mistress two days, I should lose the desire the third. [Aside.] Do you sigh, madam? You are in love too.
Ire. As far as goes to sighing, but no dying, for their breeches.
Phil. I'll be your compurgator for the handle of a fan; I know love has brought many into the world, but let out none. Has he pierced you, ha?
Ire. O no, my skin was always proof against his dart; but he once found me laughing, and so thrust it down to my heart.