_Phor._ I rarely like, it shews a rising wisdom, That chides all common fools as dare enquire What Princes would have private. _Ard._ What a Lady Shall we be blest to serve? _Luc._ Go get ye from me: Ye are your purses Agents, not the Princes: Is this the vertuous Lore ye train'd me out to? Am I a woman fit to imp your vices? But that I had a Mother, and a woman Whose ever living fame turns all it touches, Into the good it self is, I should now Even doubt my self, I have been search't so near The very soul of honour: why should you two, That happily have been as chaste as I am, Fairer, I think, by much, for yet your faces, Like ancient well built piles, shew worthy ruins, After that Angel age, turn mortal Devils? For shame, for woman-hood, for what ye have been, For rotten Cedars have born goodly branches, If ye have hope of any Heaven, but Court, Which like a Dream, you'l find hereafter vanish, Or at the best but subject to repentance, Study no more to be ill spoken of; Let women live themselves, if they must fall, Their own destruction find 'em, not your Fevours. _Ard._ Madam, ye are so excellent in all, And I must tell it you with admiration, So true a joy ye have, so sweet a fear, And when ye come to anger, 'tis so noble, That for mine own part, I could still offend, To hear you angry; women that want that, And your way guided (else I count it nothing) Are either Fools, or Cowards. _Phor._ She were a Mistris for no private greatness, Could she not frown a ravish'd kiss from anger, And such an anger as this Lady learns us, Stuck with such pleasing dangers. Gods (I ask ye) Which of ye all could hold from? _Luc._ I perceive ye, Your own dark sins dwell with ye, and that price You sell the chastity of modest wives at Runs to diseases with your bones: I scorn ye, And all the nets ye've pitcht to catch my vertues Like Spiders Webs, I sweep away before me. Go tell the Emperour, ye have met a woman, That neither his own person, which is God-like, The world he rules, nor what that world can purchase, Nor all the glories subject to a _Cæsar_, The honours that he offers for my body, The hopes, gifts, everlasting flatteries, Nor any thing that's his, and apt to tempt me, No not to be the Mother of the Empire, And Queen of all the holy fires he worships, Can make a Whore of. _Ard._ You mistake us Lady.