SCENE II.

_Enter_ Lucina, Ardelia _and_ Phorba.

_Ardel._ You still insist upon that Idol, Honour, Can it renew your youth, can it add wealth, That takes off wrinkles: can it draw mens eyes, To gaze upon you in your age? can honour, That truly is a Saint to none but Souldiers, And look'd into, bears no reward but danger, Leave you the most respected person living? Or can the common kisses of a Husband, (Which to a sprightly Lady is a labour) Make ye almost Immortal? ye are cozen'd, The honour of a woman is her praises; The way to get these, to be seen, and sought too, And not to bury such a happy sweetness Under a smoaky roof.

_Luci._ I'le hear no more.

_Phor._ That white, and red, and all that blessed beauty, Kept from the eyes, that make it so, is nothing; Then you are rarely fair, when men proclaim it; The _Phenix_, were she never seen, were doubted; That most unvalued Horn the Unicorn Bears to oppose the Huntsman, were it nothing But tale, and meer tradition, would help no man; But when the vertue's known, the honour's doubled: Vertue is either lame, or not at all, And love a Sacriledge, and not a Saint, When it bars up the way to mens Petitions.

_Ard._ Nay ye shall love your Husband too; we come not To make a Monster of ye.

_Luc._ Are ye women?

_Ard._ You'll find us so, and women you shall thank too, If you have grace to make your use.

_Luc._ Fye on ye.

_Phor._ Alas poor bashful Lady, by my soul, Had ye no other vertue, but your blushes, And I a man, I should run mad for those: How daintily they set her off, how sweetly!

_Ard._ Come Goddess, come, you move too near the earth, It must not be, a better Orb stayes for you: Here: be a Maid, and take 'em.

_Luc._ Pray leave me.

_Phor._ That were a sin sweet Lady, and a way To make us guilty of your melancholy: You must not be alone; in conversation Doubts are resolv'd, and what sticks near the conscience Made easie, and allowable.

_Luc._ Ye are Devils.

_Ard._ That you may one day bless for your damnation.

_Luc._ I charge ye in the name of Chastity, Tempt me no more; how ugly ye seem to me? There is no wonder men defame our Sex, And lay the vices of all ages on us, When such as you shall bear the names of women; If ye had eyes to see your selves, or sence Above the base rewards ye play the bawds for: If ever in your lives ye heard of goodness, (Though many Regions off, as men hear Thunder) If ever ye had Mothers, and they souls: If ever Fathers, and not such as you are; If ever any thing were constant in you, Besides your sins, or coming, but your courses; If ever any of your Ancestors Dyed worth a noble deed, that would be cherish'd; Soul-frighted with this black infection, You would run from one another, to repentance, And from your guilty eyes drop out those sins, That made ye blind, and beasts.

_Phor._ Ye speak well, Lady; A sign of fruitful education, If your religious zeal had wisdom with it.

_Ard._ This Lady was ordain'd to bless the Empire, And we may all give thanks for't.

_Phor._ I believe ye.

_Ard._ If any thing redeem the Emperour From his wild flying courses, this is she; She can instruct him if ye mark; she is wise too.

_Phor._ Exceeding wise, which is a wonder in her, And so religious, that I well believe, Though she would sin she cannot.

_Ard._ And besides, She has the Empires cause in hand, not loves; There lies the main consideration, For which she is chiefly born.

_Phor._ She finds that point Stronger than we can tell her, and believe it I look by her means for a reformation, And such a one, and such a rare way carried That all the world shall wonder at.

_Ard._ 'Tis true; I never thought the Emperor had wisdom, Pity, or fair affection to his Country, Till he profest this love: gods give 'em Children, Such as her vertues merit, and his zeal. I look to see a _Numa_ from this Lady, Or greater than _Octavius_.

_Phor._ Do you mark too, Which is a Noble vertue, how she blushes, And what a flowing modesty runs through her, When we but name the Emperour?

_Ard._ But mark it, Yes, and admire it too, for she considers, Though she be fair as Heaven, and vertuous As holy truth, yet to the Emperour She is a kind of nothing but her service, Which she is bound to offer, and she'll do it, And when her Countries cause commands affection, She knows obedience is the key of vertues, Then flye the blushes out like _Cupid's_ arrows, And though the tye of Marriage to her Lord Would fain cry, stay _Lucina_, yet the cause And general wisdom of the Princes love, Makes her find surer ends and happier, And if the first were chaste, this is twice doubled.

_Phor._ Her tartness unto us too.

_Ard._ That's a wise one.

_Phor._ I rarely like, it shews a rising wisdom, That chides all common fools as dare enquire What Princes would have private.

_Ard._ What a Lady Shall we be blest to serve?

_Luc._ Go get ye from me: Ye are your purses Agents, not the Princes: Is this the vertuous Lore ye train'd me out to? Am I a woman fit to imp your vices? But that I had a Mother, and a woman Whose ever living fame turns all it touches, Into the good it self is, I should now Even doubt my self, I have been search't so near The very soul of honour: why should you two, That happily have been as chaste as I am, Fairer, I think, by much, for yet your faces, Like ancient well built piles, shew worthy ruins, After that Angel age, turn mortal Devils? For shame, for woman-hood, for what ye have been, For rotten Cedars have born goodly branches, If ye have hope of any Heaven, but Court, Which like a Dream, you'l find hereafter vanish, Or at the best but subject to repentance, Study no more to be ill spoken of; Let women live themselves, if they must fall, Their own destruction find 'em, not your Fevours.

_Ard._ Madam, ye are so excellent in all, And I must tell it you with admiration, So true a joy ye have, so sweet a fear, And when ye come to anger, 'tis so noble, That for mine own part, I could still offend, To hear you angry; women that want that, And your way guided (else I count it nothing) Are either Fools, or Cowards.

_Phor._ She were a Mistris for no private greatness, Could she not frown a ravish'd kiss from anger, And such an anger as this Lady learns us, Stuck with such pleasing dangers. Gods (I ask ye) Which of ye all could hold from?

_Luc._ I perceive ye, Your own dark sins dwell with ye, and that price You sell the chastity of modest wives at Runs to diseases with your bones: I scorn ye, And all the nets ye've pitcht to catch my vertues Like Spiders Webs, I sweep away before me. Go tell the Emperour, ye have met a woman, That neither his own person, which is God-like, The world he rules, nor what that world can purchase, Nor all the glories subject to a _Cæsar_, The honours that he offers for my body, The hopes, gifts, everlasting flatteries, Nor any thing that's his, and apt to tempt me, No not to be the Mother of the Empire, And Queen of all the holy fires he worships, Can make a Whore of.

_Ard._ You mistake us Lady.

_Luc._ Yet tell him this has thus much weaken'd me, That I have heard his Knaves, and you his Matrons, Fit Nurses for his sins, which gods forgive me; But ever to be leaning to his folly, Or to be brought to love his lust, assure him, And from her mouth, whose life shall make it certain, I never can: I have a noble Husband, Pray tell him that too, yet a noble name, A Noble Family, and last a Conscience: Thus much for your answer: For your selves, Ye have liv'd the shame of women, dye the better. [_Exit_ Luc.

_Phor._ What's now to do?

_Ard._ Ev'n as she said, to dye, For there's no living here, and women thus, I am sure for us two.

_Phor._ Nothing stick upon her?

_Ard._ We have lost a mass of mony; well Dame Vertue, Yet ye may halt if good luck serve.

_Phor._ Worms take her, She has almost spoil'd our trade.

_Ard._ So godly; This is ill breeding, _Phorba_.

_Phor._ If the women Should have a longing now to see this Monster, And she convert 'em all.

_Ard._ That may be, _Phorba_, But if it be, I'll have the young men gelded; Come, let's go think, she must not 'scape us thus; There is a certain season, if we hit, That women may be rid without a Bit. [_Exeunt._