SCENE II.

_A Street: before_ GLISTER’S _House_.

_Enter_ GERARDINE, LIPSALVE, _and_ GUDGEON.

LIP. Now, by the horns of Cupid’s bow, which hath been the bane to many a tall[187] citizen, I think there be no finer fools under heaven than we men when we are lovers. How thou goest crying up and down, with thy arms across, for a wife! which hadst thou, she’d cross both arms, head, and heart. Dost not yet know the old saying,—a wife brings but two good days, that is her wedding-day, and death-day? GUD. Believe him, Gerardine, ’a speaks now gospel: a man may take more wife with one hand than he’s able to put away with ten, Gerardine. A wife is such a cross, that all married men would most gladly be rid of. GER. And yet such a cross,[188] that all bachelors would gladly be creeping to. Profane not thus the sacred name of love, You libertines, who never knew the joys Nor precious thoughts of two consenting hearts! LIP. Didst ever see the true picture of a lover? I can give thee the hieroglyphic; and this it is: a man standing naked, a wench tickling him on the left side with a feather, and pricking him under the right side with a needle. The allegory, as I take, is this: that at the first we are so overjoyed with obtaining a wife, that we conceit no heaven like to the first night’s lodging; and that’s the signification of the left side, for wives always in the night take the left-side place: but, sir, now come to the needle on the right side,— that’s the daytime, wherein she commands; then, sir, she has a certain thing called tongue, ten times more sharp than a needle, and that, at the least displeasure, a man must have shot quite through him. GUD. Gramercies, Lipsalve, my neat courtier!—But, sirrah Gerardine, be thyself, sociable and free: leave not thy native soil for a giglot,[189] a wench who in her wit is proud—— LIP. In her smile deceitful—— GUD. In her hate revengeable—— LIP. And in nothing but her death acceptable. I’ll tell thee, there’s no creature more desirous of an honest name, and worse keeps it, than a woman. Dost hear? follow this song; and if ever thou forsake thy country for a wagtail, let me be whipt to death with ladies’ hairlaces. GER. Let’s hear that worthy song, gentle master Lipsalve. LIP. Observe: [_Sings_] _Now, if I list, will I love no more, Nor longer wait upon a gill,_[190] _Since every place now yields a wench; If one will not, another will: And, if what I have heard be true, Then young and old and all will do._ How dost thou like this, man? GER. No more, no more. This is the chamber which confines my love, This is the abstract of the spacious world: Within it holds a gem so rich, so rare, That art or nature never yet could set A valued price[191] to her unvalued[192] worth. LIP. Unvalued worth?[193] ha, ha, ha! Why, she’s but A woman; and they are windy turning vanes; Love light as chaff, which when our nourishing grains Are winnow’d from them, unconstantly they fly At the least wind of passion: a woman’s eye Can turn itself with quick dexterity, And in each wanton glass can comprehend Their sundry fancy suited to each friend.[194] Tut, their loves are all compact of levity, Even like themselves: _nil muliere levius_ . GUD. Tut, man, every one knows their worth when they are at a rack-rent: in the term-time they bear as great a price as wheat when transportations are. [MARIA _appears above at a window_. GER. Peace: let’s draw near the window, and listen if we may hear her. MAR. Debarr’d of liberty! O, that this flesh Could, like swift-moving thoughts, transfer itself From place to place, unseen and undissolv’d! Then should no iron ribs or churlish flint Divide my love and me: dear Gerardine, Despite of chance or guardian’s tyranny, I’d move within thy orb and thou in mine! LIP. She’d move within thy orb and thou in hers? blood, she talk[s] bawdy to herself.—Gudgeon, stand close. MAR. But, [ah], in vain do I proclaim my grief, When air and walls can yield me no relief! GUD. The walls are the more stony-hearted then. LIP. Peace, good Gudgeon, gape not so loud. MAR. Come thou, my best companion! thou art sensible, And canst my wrongs reiterate: thou and I Will make some mirth in spite of tyranny. The black-brow’d Night, drawn in her pitchy[195] wain, In starry-spangled pride rides now o’er heaven: Now is the time when stealing minutes tell The stole delight joy’d by all faithful lovers: Now loving souls contrive both place and means For wished pastimes: only I am pent Within the closure of this fatal wall, Depriv’d of all my joys. GER. My dear Maria, be comforted in this: The frame of heaven shall sooner cease to move, Bright Phœbus’ steeds leave their diurnal race, And all that is forsake their natural being, Ere I forget thy love. MAR. Who’s that protests so fast? GER. Thy ever-vowed servant, Gerardine. MAR. O, by your vows, it seems you’d fain get up. LIP. Ay, and ride too. [_Aside._ GER. I would, most lov’d Maria. MAR. I knew it: he that, to get up to a fair woman, will stick to vow and swear, may be accounted no man. But tell me, Why hast thou chose this hour to visit me, Which nor the day nor night can claim, but both Or neither? why in this twilight cam’st thou? GER. T’ avoid suspicious eyes: I come, dear love, To take my last farewell; fitting this hour, Which nor bright day will claim nor pitchy night, An hour fit to part conjoined souls. Since that my native soil will not afford My wish’d and best content, I will forsake it, And prove more strange to it than it to me. In time’s swift course all things shall find event, Be it good or ill; and destinies do grant That most preposterous courses often gain What labour and direct proceedings miss. MAR. Wo’t[196] thou forsake me then? GER. Let first blest life forsake me! Be [thou] constant: My absence may procure thy more enlarge, And then—— MAR. Desire’s conceit is quick; I apprehend thee: Be thou as loyal as I constant prove, And time shall knit our mutual knot of love. Wear this, my love’s true pledge. [_Throws it down._] I need not wish, I know thou wo’t return, n[or] will I say Thou may’st conceal thyself, being return’d, Till I may make escape, and visit thee. I prithee, love, attempt not to ascend My chamber-window by a ladder’d rope: Th’ entrance is too narrow, except this post, Which may with ease,—yet that is dangerous: I prithee, do it not. I hear some call: Farewell![197] My constant love let after-actions tell. [_Exit above._ GER. O perfection of women! LIP. A plague[198] of such perfection! GER. How she wooes! by negatives shews—— GUD. Thee what to do, under colour of dissuasion.[199] GER. She’s truly virtuous! LIP. Tut, man, outward apparance[200] is no authentic instance[201] of the inward desires: women have sharp falcon’s eyes, and can soar aloft; but keep them, like falcons, from flesh, and they soon stoop to a gaudy lure. GER. Why, then, Huguenot women are admirable angels. GUD. But angels[202] make them admirable devils. GER. My love’s chaste smile to all the world doth speak Her spotless innocence.

LIP. Women’s smiles are more of custom than of courtesy: women are creatures; their hearts and they are full of holes, apt to receive, but not retain affection. Thou wilt to-morrow, thou sayest, begone: if thou wilt know the worst of a country,[203] marry before thou goest; for if thou canst endure a curst wife, never care what company thou comest in. GER. Come, merry gallants, will you associate me to my cousin Purge’s the ’pothecary’s, and take part of my parting feast[204] to-night? GUD. O, his wife is of the Family of Love: I’ll thither; perhaps I may prove of the fraternity in time: we’ll thither, that’s flat. [_Exeunt._