+Aur.+ Do not insult upon my sufferings. I had well hop'd I should receive some comfort From the sweet influence of your words or looks; But now must fly, and vanish like a cloud, Chas'd with the wind into the colder regions, Where sad despair sits ever languishing; There will I calculate my injuries, Summ'd up with my deserts: then shall I find How you are wanting to all good and pity, And that you do but juggle with our sense; That you appear gentle and smooth as water When no wind breathes on it, but indeed Are far more hard than rocks of adamant: That you are more inconstant than your mistress, Fortune, that guides you; that your promises Are all deceitful; and that wanton Love, Whom former ages, flattering their vice, And to procure more freedom for their sin, Have term'd a god, laughs at your perjuries. +Luc.+ You will do this? Why, do so. Ease your mind, So I be free from you. There's no such torment As to be troubled with an insolent lover That will receive no answer: bonds and fetters, Perpetual imprisonment, are not like it: 'Tis worse than to be seiz'd on with a fever, A continual surfeit. For heaven's sake leave me, And let me hear no more of you. +Aur.+ Is this the best reward for all my hopes, The dear expenses of [my] youth and service, Spent in the execution of your follies? When not a day or hour but witness'd with me With what great study and affected care, More than of fame or honour, I invented New ways to fit your humour; what observance, As if you were the arbitress of courtship, I sought to please you with: laid out for fashions, And bought them for you; feasted you with banquets; Read you asleep i' th' afternoon with pamphlets; Sent you elixirs and preservatives, Paintings and powders, that would have restor'd Old Niobe to youth. The beauty you pretend to, Is all my gift. Besides, I was so simple To wear your foolish colours,[312] cry your wit up, And judgment, when you had none, and swore to it; Drank to your health whole nights in hippocras[313] Upon my knees with more religion Then e'er I said my prayers: which Heaven forgive me! +Luc.+ Are these such miracles? 'Twas but your duty, The tributary homage all men owe Unto our sex. Should we enjoin you travel, Or send you on an errand into France Only to fetch a basket of musk-melons, It were a favour for you. Put the case That I were Hero, and you were Leander: If I should bid you swim the Hellespont, Only to know my mind, methinks you might Be proud of the employment. Were you a Puritan, Did I command you wait me to a play; Or to the church, though you had no religion, You might not question it. +Aur.+ Pretty, very pretty!