+Aur.+ How can I think better of you, when I consider your nature, your pride, your treachery, your covetousness, your lust; and how you commit perjury easier than speak? +Luc.+ Sure, 'tis no desert in us, but your own misguided thoughts that move in you this passion. +Aur.+ Indeed, time was I thought you pretty foolish things to play withal, and was so blinded as to imagine that your hairs were golden threads,[336] that your eyes darted forth beams, that laughter sat smiling on your lips, and the coral itself looked pale to them: that you moved like a goddess, and diffused your pleasures wide as the air: then could I prevent the rising sun[337] to wait on you, observed every nod you cast forth, had the patience to hear your discourse, and admired you, when you talked of your visits, of the court, of councils, of nobility, and of your ancestors. +Luc.+ And were not these pleasing to you? +Aur.+ Nothing but a heap of tortures: but since I have learned the Delphic Oracle, to _know myself_, and ponder what a deal of mischief you work, I am content to live private and solitary, without any pensive thought what you do, or what shall become of you. +Luc.+ Sir, if you calculate all occasions, I have not merited this neglect from you. +Aur.+ Yes, and more. Do you not remember what tasks you were wont to put me to, and expenses? when I bestowed on you gowns and petticoats, and you in exchange gave me bracelets and shoe-ties? how you fooled me sometimes, and set me to pin plaits in your ruff, two hours together, and made a waiting frippery of me? how you racked my brain to compose verses for you--a thing I could never abide? Nay, in my conscience, and I had not took courage, you had brought me to spin, and beat me with your slippers. +Luc.+ Well, sir, I perceive you are resolved to hear no reason; but, before my sorrowful departure, know she that you slight is the preserver of your life; therefore I dare be bold to call you ingrate, and in that I have spoke all that can be ill in man.[338] +Aur.+ Pray, stay; come back a little. +Luc.+ Not till you are better-tempered. What I have revealed is true; and though you prove unthankful, good deeds reward themselves: the conscience of the fact shall pay my virtue. So I leave you. [_Exit._ +Aur.+ That I should owe my life to her! which way, I wonder? Something depends on this, I must win out: well, I will not forswear it, but the toy may take me in the head, and I may see her. [_Exit._ _Enter +Antiquary+ and +Petro+._ +Ant.+ Has he such rare things, say you?