BOLD. Your soul? alas! mistress, are you so fond To think her general destruction Can be procur'd by such a natural act, Which beasts are born to, and have privilege in? Fie, fie! if this could be, far happier Are insensitive[116] souls in their creation Than man, the prince of creatures. Think you, heaven Regards such mortal deeds, or punisheth Those acts for which he hath ordained us? WID. You argue like an atheist: man is never The prince of creatures, as you call him now, But in his reason; fail that, he is worse Than horse, or dog, or beast of wilderness; And 'tis that reason teacheth us to do Our actions unlike them: then, that which you Termed in them a privilege beyond us, The baseness of their being doth express, Compar'd to ours: horses, bulls and swine Do leap their dams; because man does not so, Shall we conclude his making[117] happiless? BOLD. You put me down--yet will not put me down. I am too gentle: some of you, I have heard, Love not these words, but force; to have it done, As they sing prick-song, ev'n at the first sight. WID. Go to: keep off; by heaven and earth, I'll call else! BOLD. How, if nobody hear you? WID. If they do not, I'll kill you with mine own hand; never stare: Or failing that, fall on this sword myself. BOLD. O widow wonderful! if thou be'st not honest, Now God forgive my mother and my sisters. Think but how finely, madam, undiscover'd For ever I[118] might live: all day your gentlewoman To do you service, but all night your man To do you service: newness of the trick, If nothing else, might stir ye. WID. 'Tis a stale one, And was done in the Fleet ten years ago. Will you begone? the door is open for you. BOLD. Let me but tarry till the morning, madam, To send for clothes. Shall I go naked home? WID. 'Tis best time now; it is but one o'clock, And you may go unseen: I swear, by heaven, I would spend all the night to sit and talk w' ye, If I durst trust you: I do love you so. My blood forsakes my heart now you depart. BOLD. 'Sheart! will you marry me hereafter, then? WID. No, you are too young, and I am much too old; Ay, and unworthy, and the world will say, We married not for love. Good morrow, servant. [_Exit_ WIDOW. BOLD. Why so: these women are the errantest jugglers in the world: the wry-legged fellow is an ass to 'em. Well, I must have this widow, what-e'er come on't. Faith, she has turned me out of her service very barely. Hark, what's here? music? _Enter_ SUBTLE _with a paper, and his_ BOY _with a cloak_. SUB. [_Reads._] "Rise, lady mistress, rise, The night hath tedious been; No sleep hath fallen into my eyes, Nor slumbers made me sin. Is not she a saint, then say, Thought of whom keeps sin away?