_Pi._ 'Pray ye, Sir, Entertain my noble Mistris: only a word or two With this importunate woman, and I'le relieve ye. Now ye see what your flings are, and your fancies, Your states, and your wild stubborness, now ye [fi]nd What 'tis to gird and kick at mens fair services, To raise your pride to such a pitch, and glory That goodness shews like gnats, scorn'd under ye, 'Tis ugly, naught, a self will in a woman, Chain'd to an over-weening thought, is pestilent, Murthers fair fortune first; then fair opinion: There stands a Pattern, a true patient Pattern, Humble, and sweet. _Lil._ I can but grieve my ignorance, Repentance some say too, is the best sacrifice; For sure, Sir, if my chance had been so happy, (As I confess I was mine own destroyer) As to have arrived at you; I will not prophesie, But certain, as I think, I should have pleas'd ye; Have made ye as much wonder at my courtesie, My love, and duty, as I have dishearten'd ye, Some hours we have of youth, and some of folly; And being free-born Maids, we take a liberty, And to maintain that, sometimes we strain highly. _Pi._ Now ye talk reason. _Lil._ But being yoak'd, and govern'd, Married, and those light vanities purg'd from us; How fair we grow, how gentle, and how tender, We twine about those loves that shoot-up with us! A sullen woman fear, that talks not to ye; She has a sad and darkn'd soul, loves dully: A merry and a free wench, give her liberty; Believe her in the lightest form she appears to ye, Believe her excellent, though she despise ye, Let but these fits and flashes pass, she will shew to ye; As Jewels rub'd from dust, or Gold new burnish'd: Such had I been, had you believ'd. _Pi._ Is't possible? _Lil._ And to your happiness, I dare assure ye If True love be accounted so; your pleasure, Your will, and your command had tyed my Motions: But that hope's gone; I know you are young, and giddy, And till you have a Wife can govern with ye, You sail upon this wo[r]ld-Sea, light and empty; Your Bark in danger daily; 'tis not the name neither Of Wife can steer ye; but the noble nature, The diligence, the care, the love, the patience, She makes the Pilot, and preserves the Husband, That knows, and reckons every Rib he is built on; But this I tell ye, to my shame. _Pin._ I admire ye, And now am sorry, that I aim beyond ye. _Mir._ So, so, so, fair and softly. She is thine own, Boy, She comes now, without Lure. _Pin._ But that it must needs Be reckon'd to me as a wantonness, Or worse, a madness, to forsake a Blessing, A Blessing of that hope. _Lil._ I dare not urge ye, And yet, dear Sir.