_Anc._ Were never such rare Cries in Christendome, As _Mosco_ shall afford: we'll live by fooling Now fighting's gone, and they shall find and feel it. [_Exit._ SCENE II. _Enter_ Archas, Honora, _and_ Viola. _Ar._ No more, it must be so; do you think I would send ye, Your father and your friend-- _Viol._ Pray Sir, be good to us, Alas, we know no Court, nor seek that knowledge; We are content with harmless things at home, Children of your content, bred up in quiet, Only to know our selves, to seek a Wisedome From that we understand, easie and honest; To make our actions worthy of your Honour, Their ends as innocent as we begot 'em; What shall we look for Sir, what shall we learn there, That this more private sweetness cannot teach us? Vertue was never built upon ambition, Nor the Souls Beauties bred out of Bravery: What a terrible Father would you seem to us, Now you have moulded us, and wrought our tempers To easie and obedient ways, uncrooked, Where the fair mind can never lose nor loiter, Now to divert our Natures, now to stem us Roughly against the tide of all this treasure? Would ye have us proud? 'tis sooner bred than buried; Wickedly proud? for such things dwell at Court, Sir. _Hon._ Would ye have your Children learn to forget their father, And when he dies dance on his Monument? Shall we seek Vertue in a Sattin Gown; Embroider'd Vertue? Faith in a well-curl'd Feather? And set our Credits to the tune of green sleeves? This may be done; and if you like, it shall be. You should have sent us thither when we were younger, Our maiden-heads at a higher rate; our Innocence Able to make a Mart indeed: we are now too old, Sir, Perhaps they'll think too cunning too, and slight us; Besides, we are altogether unprovided, Unfurnisht utterly of the rules should guide us: This Lord comes, licks his hand, and protests to me; Compares my Beauty to a thousand fine things; Mountains, and Fountains, Trees, and Stars, and Goblins; Now have not I the faith for to believe him; He offers me the honourable courtesie, To lye with me all night, what a misery is this? I am bred up so foolishly, alas, I dare not, And how madly these things will shew there.