_Lil._ You say true, Sir: For by my troth, I have heard of none these ten years, They are so rare, and there are so many, Sir, So many longing-women on their knees too, That pray the dropping down of these good husbands, The droping down from heaven; for they are not bred [here], That you may guess at all my hope, but hearing-- _Mir._ Why may not I be one? _Lil._ You were near 'em once, Sir, When ye came over the _Alpes_; those are near Heaven; But since ye miss'd that happiness, there is no hope of ye. _Mir._ Can ye love a man? _Lil._ Yes, if the man be lovely; That is, be honest, modest; I would have him valiant, His anger slow, but certain for his honour; Travell'd he should be, but through himself exactly; For 'tis fairer to know manners well than Countries; He must be no vain Talker, nor no Lover To hear himself talk, they are brags of a wanderer, Of one finds no retreict for fair behaviour; Would ye learn more? _Mir._ Yes. _Lil._ Learn to hold your peace then, Fond Girls are got with tongues, women with tempers. _Mir._ Women, with I know what; but let this vanish: Go thy way good Wife _Bias_; sure thy Husband Must have a strong Philosophers stone, he will ne'r please thee else. Here's a starcht piece of austerity; do you hear, Father? Do you hear this moral Lecture? _La-C._ Yes, and like it. _Mir._ Why, there's your judgment now; there's an old bolt shot: This thing must have the strangest observation, Do you mark me (father?) when she is married once, The strangest custom too of admiration On all she does and speaks, 'twill be past sufferance; I must not lie with her in common language, Nor cry have at thee, _Kate_, I shall be hiss'd then; Nor eat my meat without the sawce of sentences, Your powder'd Beef, and Problems, a rare diet; My first Son, Monsieur _Aristotle_, I know it, Great Master of the Metaphysicks, or so; The second _Solon_, and the best Law-setter; And I must look _Egyptian_ God-fathers, Which will be no small trouble: my eldest daughter _Sapho_, or such a fidling kind of Poetess, And brought up, _invita Minerva_, at her needle. My dogs must look their names too, and all _Spartan_, _Lelaps_, _Melampus_; no more _Fox_ and _Baudiface_. I married to a sullen set of sentences? To one that weighs her words and her behaviours In the gold-weights of discretion? I'll be hang'd first. _La-C._ Prithee reclaim thy self. _Mir._ 'Pray ye give me time then; If they can set me any thing to play at, That seems fit for a Gamester, have at the fairest Till I see more, and try more. _La-C._ Take your time then, I'll bar ye no fair liberty: come Gentlemen, And Ladies come: to all once more welcome, And now let's in to supper. _Mir._ How dost' like 'em?