_Evan._ She weeps. Sweet Lady Upon my knees I ask your sacred pardon, For my rude boldness: and know, my sweet Mistris, If e're there were ambition in _Evanthe_, It was and is to do you faithful duties; 'Tis true I have been tempted by the King, And with no few and potent charms, to wrong ye, To violate the chaste joyes of your bed; And those not taking hold, to usurp your state; But she that has been bred up under ye, And daily fed upon your vertuous precepts, Still growing strong by example of your goodness, Having no errant motion from obedience, Flyes from these vanities, as meer illusions; And arm'd with honesty, defies all promises. In token of this truth, I lay my life down Under your sacred foot, to do you service. _Que._ Rise my true friend, thou vertuous bud of beauty, Thou Virgins honour, sweetly blow and flourish, And that rude nipping wind, that seeks to blast thee, Or taint thy root, be curst to all posterity; To my protection from this hour I take ye, Yes, and the King shall know-- _Evan._ Give his heat way, Madam, And 'twill go out again, he may forget all. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Camillo, Cleanthes, _and_ Menallo. _Cam._ What have we to do with the times? we cannot cure 'em. Let 'em go on, when they are swoln with Surfeits They'l burst and stink, then all the world shall smell 'em. _Cle._ A man may live a bawd, and be an honest man. _Men._ Yes, and a wise man too, 'tis a vertuous calling. _Cam._ To his own Wife especially, or to his Sister, The nearer to his own bloud, still the honester; There want such honest men, would we had more of 'em. _Men._ To be a villain is no such rude matter. _Cam._ No, if he be a neat one, and a perfect, Art makes all excellent: what is it, Gentlemen, In a good cause to kill a dozen Coxcombs, That blunt rude fellows call good Patriots? Nothing, nor ne'r look'd after. _Men._ 'Tis e'en as much, as easie too, as honest, and as clear, To ravish Matrons, and, deflower coy Wenches, But here they are so willing, 'tis a complement. _Cle._ To pull down Churches with pretension To build 'em fairer, may be done with honour, And all this time believe no gods. _Cam._ I think so, 'tis faith enough if they name 'em in their angers, Or on their rotten Tombs ingrave an Angel; Well, brave _Alphonso_, how happy had we been, If thou had'st raign'd! _Men._ Would I had his Disease, Tyed like a Leprosie to my posterity, So he were right again. _Cle._ What is his Malady?