Hip. Worse than damnation! a wild kerne,[264] a frog,
A dog: whom I’ll scarce spurn. Longed you for shamrock?
Were it my father’s father, heart, I’ll kill him,
Although I take him on his death-bed gasping
’Twixt Heaven and hell! a shag-haired cur! Bold strumpet,
Why hang’st thou on me? think’st I’ll be a bawd
To a whore, because she’s noble?
Inf. I beg but this,
Set not my shame out to the world’s broad eye,
Yet let thy vengeance, like my fault, soar high,
So it be in darkened clouds.
Hip. Darkened! my horns
Cannot be darkened, nor shall my revenge.
A harlot to my slave? the act is base,
Common, but foul, so shall not thy disgrace.
Could not I feed your appetite? O women
You were created angels, pure and fair;
But since the first fell, tempting devils you are,
You should be men’s bliss, but you prove their rods:
Were there no women, men might live like gods;
You ha’ been too much down already; rise,
Get from my sight, and henceforth shun my bed;
I’ll with no strumpet’s breath be poisonèd.
As for your Irish lubrican, that spirit
Whom by preposterous charms thy lust hath raised
In a wrong circle, him I’ll damn more black
Then any tyrant’s soul.
Inf. Hippolito!
Hip. Tell me, didst thou bait hooks to draw him to thee,
Or did he bewitch thee?
Inf. The slave did woo me.
Hip. Tu-whoos in that screech-owl’s language. Oh, who’d trust
Your cork-heeled sex? I think to sate your lust,
You’d love a horse, a bear, a croaking toad,
So your hot itching veins might have their bound:
Then the wild Irish dart[265] was thrown? Come, how?
The manner of this fight?
Inf. ’Twas thus, he gave me this battery first.—Oh, I
Mistake—believe me, all this in beaten gold;
Yet I held out, but at length thus was charmed. [Gives letter, purse and ring.
What? change your diamond, wench, the act is base,
Common, but foul, so shall not your disgrace:
Could not I feed your appetite? O men,
You were created angels, pure and fair,
But since the first fell, worse than devils you are.
You should our shields be, but you prove our rods.
Were there no men, women might live like gods.
Guilty, my lord?
Hip. Yes, guilty my good lady.
Inf. Nay, you may laugh, but henceforth shun my bed,
With no whore’s leavings I’ll be poisonèd. [Exit.