’Tis possible a virtuous woman may
Abhor all sorts of looseness, and yet play:
Play on the stage—where all eyes are upon her:
Shall we count that a crime France counts as an honour?
In other kingdoms husbands safely trust ’em;
The difference lies only in the custom.
And let it be our custom, I advise:
I’m sure this custom’s better than th’ excise,
And may procure us custom: hearts of flint
Will melt in passion, when a woman’s in’t.