Aur. If ever devil damn'd in a woman's tongue,
'Tis in thine. I am glad yet you tell me this;
I might have else proceeded, and gone on
In the lewd[314] way of loving you, and so
Have wander'd farther from myself: but now
I'll study to be wiser, and henceforth
Hate the whole gang of you; denounce a war,
Ne'er to be reconcil'd, and rejoice in it;
And count myself bless'd for't; and wish all men
May do the like to shun you. For my part,
If, when my brains are troubled with late drinking
(I shall have else the grace, sure, to forget you),
Then but my labouring fancy dream of you,
I'll start, affrighted at the vision.
Luc. 'Las! how pitifully it takes it to heart!
It would be angry too, if it knew how.
Aur. Come near me none of you: if I hear
The sound of your approach, I'll stop my ears;
Nay, I'll be angry, if I shall imagine
That any of you think of me: and, for thy sake,
If I but see the picture of a woman,
I'll hide my face and break it. So farewell. [Exit Lucretia.
Enter Lorenzo, Mocinigo, and Angelia.
Lor. What are you, friend, and what's your business?
Aur. Whate'er it be, now 'tis despatch'd.
Lor. This is rudeness.
Aur. The fitter for the place and persons then.
Lor. How's that?
Aur. You are a nest of savages: the house
Is more inhospitable than the quicksands:
Your daughter sits on that enchanted bay
Like a siren[315] to entice passengers,
Who, viewing her through a false perspective,
Neglect the better traffic of their life;
But yet, the more they labour to come near her,
The further she flies back; until at last,
When she has brought them to some rock or shelf,
She proudly looks down on the wreck of lovers.