San. Deceit of timorous modesty! Traitors
To love your blushes are: your fears are envious
Of your delights. Let's vanish hence, and ne'er
To th' vulgar eye appear, till we,
Grown old in pleasure, be transform'd t' a vine
Or ivy, so for ever to entwine.
Cle. Then I unveil.
San. O, fly into my arms,
As a rich odour to the ravish'd sense!
Perfume me with thy kisses.
Cle. Stay, my lord!
Actions of moment (as I take this is)
Must be maturely thought on. I have call'd
My reason to account.
San. Your reason, madam!
Cle. Yes, my good lord: that only doth distinguish
A woman from brute beasts; or, what's more sensual,
A vain loose man. What sin scandals my carriage,
To give encouragement to this presumption?
What privileg'd this attempt?
San. That tempting beauty.
Cle. It is a traitor then to my pure thoughts;
And, to preserve your eye, would it were wrinkled:
I could much easier suffer the reproach
Of age than your bold courtship. If a lady
Be young and sportive, use curiosity,
And perhaps art, to help where nature seem'd
Imperfect in her work, will you, from the
False argument of your own loose blood, conclude
Her guilty? Or, if she select a friend,
Whose innocence gives warrant to her faith,
Will you infer their whispers have no aim
But that of brothels? 'Cause you find yourself
Nought but loose flesh, will you turn heretic,
And thence deny the soul?
San. This language, madam,
Sounds nothing to the purpose of our meeting.
Cle. More to the benefit. But in your patent,
'Mong all the privileges of a Conde,
Where find you lust inserted? Without which,
Till age hath made you wise or impotent,
You think your honour is defective. 'Cause
Your clothes are handsome and mine too, must we
Deform our minds? Is it sufficient motive
To sin, if opportunity and youth
Persuade us? Such as you are those foul plagues
Infect the air which breathes our fame, and make
The cautious sirs o' th' country shun us.