Aur. Why do you hate me, lady? Was there ever
Woman so cruel to hate him that lov'd her?
O, do not so degenerate from nature,
Which form'd you of a temper soft as silk;
And to the sweet composure of your body
Took not a drop of gall or corrupt humour!
But all your blood was clear and purified.
Then, as your limbs are fair, so be your mind:
Cast not a scandal on her curious hand,
To say she made that crooked or uneven;
For virtue is the best, which is deriv'd
From a sweet feature. Women crown their youth
With the chaste ornaments of love and truth.
Luc. This is a language you are studied in,
And you have spoke it to a thousand.
Aur. Never, never to any; for my soul is cut so
To the proportion of what you are,
That all the other beauty in the world
That is not found within your face, seems vile.
O, that I were a veil upon that face,[311]
To hide it from the world! methinks I could
Envy the very sun for gazing on you!
Luc. I wonder that a fellow of no worth
Should talk thus liberally: be so impudent,
After so many slightings and abuses
Extorted from me beyond modesty,
To press upon me still. Have not I told you
My mind in words, plain to be understood,
How much I hate you? Can I not enjoy
The freedom of my chamber, but you must
Stand in my prospect? If you please, I will
Resign up all, and leave you possession.
What can I suffer or expect more grievous
From the enforcement of an enemy?
Aur. Do not insult upon my sufferings.
I had well hop'd I should receive some comfort
From the sweet influence of your words or looks;
But now must fly, and vanish like a cloud,
Chas'd with the wind into the colder regions,
Where sad despair sits ever languishing;
There will I calculate my injuries,
Summ'd up with my deserts: then shall I find
How you are wanting to all good and pity,
And that you do but juggle with our sense;
That you appear gentle and smooth as water
When no wind breathes on it, but indeed
Are far more hard than rocks of adamant:
That you are more inconstant than your mistress,
Fortune, that guides you; that your promises
Are all deceitful; and that wanton Love,
Whom former ages, flattering their vice,
And to procure more freedom for their sin,
Have term'd a god, laughs at your perjuries.
Luc. You will do this? Why, do so. Ease your mind,
So I be free from you. There's no such torment
As to be troubled with an insolent lover
That will receive no answer: bonds and fetters,
Perpetual imprisonment, are not like it:
'Tis worse than to be seiz'd on with a fever,
A continual surfeit. For heaven's sake leave me,
And let me hear no more of you.
Aur. Is this the best reward for all my hopes,
The dear expenses of [my] youth and service,
Spent in the execution of your follies?
When not a day or hour but witness'd with me
With what great study and affected care,
More than of fame or honour, I invented
New ways to fit your humour; what observance,
As if you were the arbitress of courtship,
I sought to please you with: laid out for fashions,
And bought them for you; feasted you with banquets;
Read you asleep i' th' afternoon with pamphlets;
Sent you elixirs and preservatives,
Paintings and powders, that would have restor'd
Old Niobe to youth. The beauty you pretend to,
Is all my gift. Besides, I was so simple
To wear your foolish colours,[312] cry your wit up,
And judgment, when you had none, and swore to it;
Drank to your health whole nights in hippocras[313]
Upon my knees with more religion
Then e'er I said my prayers: which Heaven forgive me!
Luc. Are these such miracles? 'Twas but your duty,
The tributary homage all men owe
Unto our sex. Should we enjoin you travel,
Or send you on an errand into France
Only to fetch a basket of musk-melons,
It were a favour for you. Put the case
That I were Hero, and you were Leander:
If I should bid you swim the Hellespont,
Only to know my mind, methinks you might
Be proud of the employment. Were you a Puritan,
Did I command you wait me to a play;
Or to the church, though you had no religion,
You might not question it.
Aur. Pretty, very pretty!
Luc. And then, because I am familiar,
And deign out of my nobleness and bounty
To grace your weak endeavours with the title
Of courtesy, to wave my fan at you,
Or let you kiss my hand, must we straight marry?
I may esteem you in the rank of servants,
To cast off when I please, ne'er for a husband.