+Fran.+ Why, then, I'll tell you: you may believe me (Having been train'd up in my youth, you know, In the best school to learn court mysteries, An aunt of mine being mother of the maids), Love holds the rudder, and steers in all courts. How oft, when great affairs perplex the brains Of mighty politicians to conjecture, From whence sprung such designs, such revolutions: Such exaltations, madam, such depressions, Against the rules of their mysterious art; And when, as in surprising works of nature, Reason's confounded, men cry those are secrets Of the high pow'rs above, that govern all Grave lookers on, stroking their beards, would say, What a transcendent fetch of state is this! These are the things that wisdom hides and hatches Under black cap of weighty jobbernowl; I mean Count Olivarez. All the while, We female Machiavels would smile to think, How closely lurking lay the nick of all Under our daughter Doll's white petticoat. +Blan.+ All this, I grant you, may be true, and yet Ne'er make a jot for his excuse, Francisca. His suit had no relation to such matters. +Fran.+ Whate'er the thing be, 'tis all one. D' you think Suits, be they what they will, can be obtain'd By such as pass for fops, as all young men Without a mistress or a confidant Are sure to do there? A sharp-pointed hat (Now that you see the gallants all flat-headed) Appears not so ridiculous as a younker Without a love-intrigue to introduce And sparkify him there. Madam, in short, Allow me once to be sententious: It is a thing that always was, and is, And ever will be, true to the world's end: That, as in courts of justice, none can carry On business well without a procurator, So none in princes' courts their suits make surer, Than those that work them by the best procurer. +Blan.+ [_Smiling a little._] Well, hast done, Francisca? +Fran.+ Madam, I have. +Blan.+ Then letting pass Thy fine reflections politic, now vented To shew thy skill in courts, I'll tell thee freely, I'm not transported in my jealousy So far beyond the bounds of reason, as Not to know well the difference betwixt Such escapades of youth, as only spring From warmth of blood or gales of vanity, And such engagements as do carry with them Dishonour unto those, whose quality And love leave little to the serious part, Once embark'd by them in a gallantry. +Fran.+ I see the clouds disperse. There's no such art Of compassing one's ends with those above us, As that of working them into good humour By things brought in by the by. [_Aside._ Why, surely, madam, unless anger lend you Its spectacles to see things, I cannot think You judge Don Zancho's fault to be any other Than of the first kind, so well stated by you.