2d Boy. For shame's sake, no further, my dainty doctors.
[Aside.
Flo. With th' symptoms or gradations as they stream
In your desertless sufferings; paroxysms,
Or what extremes may most surprise your fancies:
In these our serious judgments shall supply
Such sov'reign cordials as you shall not need
No use nor application of more help
Than what we shall prepare. Let this suffice:
It rests in us to cure your maladies—
Excuse us, Madam Medler; these debates
Have kept us from discovery of your wrongs.
Med. Than which none more depressive—would you judge
Th' musician good that wants his instrument?
Or any artisan, who goes to work
Without provision of a proper tool,
To manage that employment? Modesty
Bids me conceal the rest: my secret wants
Require an active tongue; but womanhood
Enjoins me silence.
Mor. 'Las! I'm sensible
Of her aggrievance, ere her dialect
Can give it breath or accent.
Med. But you say—
And our experience has inform'd us, too—
In that essential truth, that we must first
Disclose our wounds, if we expect a cure:
Let your impartial judgments, then, give ear
To a distressed lady's just complaint.
In my first years, as now I am not old,
My friends resolved to supply a portion,
Which my descent (though good) could not afford,
To match my youth unto a man of age,
Whose nest was richly feather'd, stor'd of all
But native vigour, which express'd itself
As if all radical humour had been drench'd
In a chill shady bed of cucumbers
Before our nuptial night. Oft had I begg'd.
With sighs and tears, that this unequal match
Might be diverted; but it might not be.
The fulness of his fortunes winged them
To consummate the match: this pleased them,
But me displeas'd, whom it concerned most.
Flo. The issue, madam?
Med. None; nor ever shall
With that sear, suckless kex.
Mor. Never was lady
So rarely beautifi'd, so highly wrong'd.
Car. What flinty worldling were those friends of yours
To value fortunes more than your content!