SCENE I.--_Before the House of_ AQUILINA.

_Enter_ PIERRE _and_ AQUILINA.

_Aquil._ By all thy wrongs, thou'rt dearer to my arms Than all the wealth of Venice: pr'ythee stay, And let us love to-night.

_Pier._ No: there's fool, There's fool about thee: when a woman sells Her flesh to fools, her beauty's lost to me; They leave a taint, a sully where they've passed; There's such a baneful quality about them, Even spoils complexions with their nauseousness; They infect all they touch; I cannot think Of tasting any thing a fool has palled.

_Aquil._ I loathe and scorn that fool thou mean'st, as much Or more than thou canst; but the beast has gold, That makes him necessary; power too, To qualify my character, and poise me Equal with peevish virtue, that beholds My liberty with envy: in their hearts They're loose as I am; but an ugly power Sits in their faces, and frights pleasures from them.

_Pier._ Much good may't do you, madam, with your senator!

_Aquil._ My senator! why, canst thou think that wretch E'er filled thy Aquilina's arms with pleasure? Think'st thou, because I sometimes give him leave To foil himself at what he is unfit for; Because I force myself to endure and suffer him, Think'st thou I love him? No, by all the joys Thou ever gav'st me, his presence is my penance: The worst thing an old man can be is a lover, A mere _memento mori_ to poor woman. I never lay by his decrepit side, But all that night I pondered on my grave.

_Pier._ Would he were well sent thither!

_Aquil._ That's my wish too, For then, my Pierre, I might have cause, with pleasure, To play the hypocrite. Oh! how I could weep Over the dying dotard, and kiss him too, In hopes to smother him quite; then, when the time Was come to pay my sorrows at his funeral, (For he has already made me heir to treasures Would make me out-act a real widow's whining,) How could I frame my face to fit my mourning! With wringing hands attend him to his grave; Fall swooning on his hearse; take mad possession Even of the dismal vault where he lay buried; There, like the Ephesian matron[65] dwell, till thou, My lovely soldier, com'st to my deliverance: Then throwing up my veil, with open arms And laughing eyes, run to new dawning joy.

_Pier._ No more! I've friends to meet me here to-night, And must be private. As you prize my friendship, Keep up[66] your coxcomb: let him not pry nor listen, Nor frisk about the house as I have seen him, Like a tame mumping squirrel with a bell on; Curs will be abroad to bite him, if you do.

_Aquil._ What friends to meet? mayn't I be of your council?

_Pier._ How! a woman ask questions out of bed? Go to your senator, ask him what passes Amongst his brethren; he'll hide nothing from you: But pump not me for politics. No more! Give order, that whoever in my name Comes here, receive admittance: so good-night.

_Aquil._ Must we ne'er meet again? embrace no more? Is love so soon and utterly forgotten?

_Pier._ As you henceforward treat your fool, I'll think on't. [_Exit._

_Aquil._ Cursed be all fools, and doubly cursed myself, The worst of fools! I die if he forsakes me; And how to keep him, Heaven or hell instruct me. [_Exit._