Cyp. Threescore pace each way.
Flo. Your majesty shall have your will perform'd.
Phil. Do, and you do us grace. And now, thou sun,
That art the eye of heaven, whose pure sight
Shall be our guide and Jove's great chronicler,
Look from thy sphere!
No guilt of pride, of malice, or of blood,
Puts on our armour; only pure naked love
Tutors our hopes, and doth our actions move.
Cyp. Enough, my Philocles, thine orisons are heard.
Come, let's away. [Exeunt.
Enter Lollia, the wife of Prate the Orator.[141]
Lol. Now fie upon't, who would be an orator's wife, and not a gentlewoman, if she could choose? A lady is the most sweet lascivious life, congies and kisses—the tire, O the tire, made castle upon castle, jewel upon jewel, knot upon knot; crowns, garlands, gardings,[142] and what not? the hood, the rebato,[143] the French fall,[144] the loose-bodied gown, the pin in the hair; no clawing the pate, then picking the teeth, and every day change; when we poor souls must come and go for every man's pleasure: and what's a lady more than another body? we have legs and hands, and rolling eyes, hanging lips, sleek brows, cherry cheeks, and other things as ladies have—but the fashion carries it away.
Enter Mistress Collaquintida.
Col. Why how now, Mistress Prate? i' th' old disease still? will it never be better? cannot a woman find one kind man amongst twenty? O the days that I have seen, when the law of a woman's wit could have put her husband's purse to execution!
Lol. O Mistress Collaquintida, mine is even the unnaturallest man to his wife——