Hip. Hence; guard the chamber: let no more come on, [Exit Servant.
One woman serves for man’s damnation—
Beshrew thee, thou dost make me violate
The chastest and most sanctimonious vow,
That e’er was entered in the court of Heaven!
I was, on meditation’s spotless wings,
Upon my journey thither; like a storm
Thou beat’st my ripened cogitations,
Flat to the ground: and like a thief dost stand,
To steal devotion from the holy land.
Bell. If woman were thy mother—if thy heart,
Be not all marble, or if’t marble be,
Let my tears soften it, to pity me—
I do beseech thee, do not thus with scorn
Destroy a woman!
Hip. Woman, I beseech thee,
Get thee some other suit, this fits thee not:
I would not grant it to a kneeling queen,
I cannot love thee, nor I must not: see [Points to Infelice’s picture.
The copy of that obligation,
Where my soul’s bound in heavy penalties.
Bell. She’s dead, you told me, she’ll let fall her suit.
Hip. My vows to her, fled after her to Heaven:
Were thine eyes clear as mine, thou might’st behold her,
Watching upon yon battlements of stars,
How I observe them. Should I break my bond,
This board would rive in twain, these wooden lips
Call me most perjured villain. Let it suffice,
I ha’ set thee in the path; is’t not a sign
I love thee, when with one so most most dear,
I’ll have thee fellow? All are fellows there.
Bell. Be greater than a king; save not a body,
But from eternal shipwreck keep a soul,
If not, and that again, sin’s path I tread,
The grief be mine, the guilt fall on thy head!
Hip. Stay, and take physic for it; read this book,
Ask counsel of this head, what’s to be done;
He’ll strike it dead, that ’tis damnation
If you turn Turk again. Oh, do it not!
Though Heaven cannot allure you to do well,
From doing ill let hell fright you: and learn this,
The soul whose bosom lust did never touch,
Is God’s fair bride, and maidens’ souls are such:
The soul that leaving chastity’s white shore,
Swims in hot sensual streams, is the devil’s whore.—
Re-enter Servant with letter.
How now, who comes?
Ser. No more knaves, my lord, that wear smocks: here’s a letter from Doctor Benedict; I would not enter his man, though he had hairs at his mouth, for fear he should be a woman, for some women have beards; marry, they are half-witches. ’Slid![199] you are a sweet youth to wear a cod-piece, and have no pins to stick upon’t.