SCAR. Men that traduce by custom, show sharp wit
Only in speaking ill; and practice it
Against the best creatures, divine women,
Who are God's agents' here, and the heavenly eye,
By which this orb hath her maturity:
Beauty in women gets the world with child,
Without whom she were barren, faint and wild.
They are the stems on which do angels grow,
From whence virtue is still'd, and arts do flow.
Enter SIR JOHN HARCOP and his daughter CLARE.
ILF. Let them be what flowers they will; and they were roses, I will pluck none of them for pricking my fingers. But soft, here comes a voider for us: and I see, do what I can, as long as the world lasts, there will be cuckolds in it. Do you hear, child, here's one come to blend you together: he has brought you a kneading-tub, if thou dost take her at his hands. Though thou hadst Argus' eyes, be sure of this, Women have sworn with more than one to kiss.
HAR. Nay, no parting, gentlemen. Hem!
WEN. 'Sfoot, does he make punks of us, that he hems already?
HAR. Gallants,
Know old John Harcop keeps a wine-cellar,
Has travell'd, been at court, known fashions,
And unto all bear habit like yourselves—
The shapes of gentlemen and men of sort,
I have a health to give them, ere they part.
WEN. Health, knight! not as drunkards give their healths, I hope: to go together by the ears when they have done?
HAR. My healths are Welcome: Welcome, gentlemen.
ILF. Are we welcome, knight, in faith?
HAR. Welcome, in faith, sir.