Enter the Lady Honour, the Lady Perfect, the Lady Bright.
Maid.[72] A wife the happiest state? It cannot be.
Wife. Yes, such a wife as I, that have a man
As if myself had made him: such a one
As I may justly say, I am the rib
Belonging to his breast. Widow and maid,
Your lives compared to mine are miserable,
Though wealth and beauty meet in each of you.
Poor virgin, all thy sport is thought of love
And meditation of a man; the time
And circumstance, ere thou canst fix thy thoughts
On one thy fancy will approve.
Maid. That trouble
Already may be pass'd.
Wife. Why, if it be,
The doubt he will not hold his brittle faith,
That he is not a competible choice,
And so your noble friends will cross the match,
Doth make your happiness uncertain still;
Or say, you married him? what he would prove.
Can you compare your state, then, to a wife?
Maid. Nay, all the freedom that a virgin hath
Is much to be preferr'd. Who would endure
The humours of so insolent[73] a thing
As is a husband? Which of all the herd
Runs not possess'd with some notorious vice,
Drinking or whoring, fighting, jealousy,
Even of a page at twelve or of a groom
That rubs horse-heels? Is it not daily seen,
Men take wives but to dress their meat, to wash
And starch their linen: for the other matter
Of lying with them, that's but when they please:
And whatsoe'er the joy be of the bed,
The pangs that follow procreation
Are hideous, or you wives have gull'd your husbands
With your loud shriekings and your deathful throes.
A wife or widow to a virgin's life!
Wid. Why should the best of you think ye enjoy
The roost[74] and rule, that a free widow doth?
I am mine own commander, and the bliss
Of wooers and of each variety
Frequents me, as I were a maid. No brother
Have I to dice my patrimony away, as you,
My maiden-madam, may. No husband's death
Stand I in doubt on; for thanks be to heaven,
If mine were good, the grievous loss of him
Is not to come; if he were bad, he's gone,
And I no more embrace my injury.
But be yours ill, you nightly clasp your hate;
Or good—why, he may die or change his virtue.
And thou, though single, hast a bed-fellow
As bad as the worst husband—thought of one;
And what that is men with their wives do do,
And long expectance till the deed be done.
A wife is like a garment us'd and torn:
A maid like one made up, but never worn.
Maid. A widow is a garment worn threadbare,
Selling at second-hand, like broker's ware.
But let us speak of things the present time
Makes happy to us, and see what is best.
I have a servant then, the crown of men,
The fountain of humanity, the prize
Of every virtue, moral and divine;
Young, valiant, learned, well-born, rich, and shap'd,
As if wise Nature, when she fashion'd him,
Had meant to give him nothing but his form;
Yet all additions are conferr'd on him,
That may delight a woman: this same youth
To me hath sacrific'd his heart, yet I
Have check'd his suit, laugh'd at his worthy service,
Made him the exercise of my cruelty,
Whilst constant as the sun, for all these clouds,
His love goes on.
Enter Ingen.
Wid. Peace, here's the man you name.