Orl. Would she were turned to Heaven! Umph, is she dead? I am glad the world has lost one of his idols; no whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doors. In her grave sleep all my shame, and her own; and all my sorrows, and all her sins!
Hip. I’m glad you’re wax, not marble; you are made
Of man’s best temper; there are now good hopes
That all these heaps of ice about your heart,
By which a father’s love was frozen up,
Are thawed in these sweet showers, fetched from your eyes;
We are ne’er like angels till our passion dies.
She is not dead, but lives under worse fate;
I think she’s poor; and more to clip her wings,
Her husband at this hour lies in the jail,
For killing of a man. To save his blood,
Join all your force with mine: mine shall be shown:
The getting of his life preserves your own.
Orl. In my daughter, you will say! does she live then? I am sorry I wasted tears upon a harlot; but the best is I have a handkercher to drink them up, soap can wash them all out again. Is she poor?
Hip. Trust me, I think she is.
Orl. Then she’s a right strumpet; I ne’er knew any of their trade rich two years together; sieves can hold no water, nor harlots hoard up money; they have too many vents, too many sluices to let it out; taverns, tailors, bawds, panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools and knaves do all wait upon a common harlot’s trencher: she is the gallipot to which these drones fly, not for love to the pot, but for the sweet sucket[237] within it, her money, her money.
Hip. I almost dare pawn my word, her bosom
Gives warmth to no such snakes. When did you see her?
Orl. Not seventeen summers.
Hip. Is your hate so old?
Orl. Older; it has a white head, and shall never die till she be buried: her wrongs shall be my bedfellow.