_Rod._ Signior Mark-antonio, Till meat be ready, let's sit here and prepare Our stomachs with discourses. _Mar[c]._ What you please Sir. _Rod._ Pray ye answer me to this doubt. _Marc._ If I can Sir. _Rod._ Why should such plants as you are; pleasure children, That owe their blushing years to gentle objects, Tenderly bred, and brought up in all fulness, Desire the stubborn wars? _Marc._ In those 'tis wonder, That make their ease their god, and not their honor: But noble General my end is other, Desire of knowledge Sir, and hope of tying Discretion to my time, which only shews me, And not my years, a man, and makes that more Which we call handsome, the rest is but Boys beauty, And with the Boy consum'd. _Rod._ Ye argue well Sir. _Mar._ Nor do I wear my youth, as they wear breeches, For object, but for use: my strength for danger, Which is the liberal part of man, not dalliance, The wars must be my Mistress Sir. _Rod._ Oh Signior, You'll find her a rough wench. _Mar._ When she is won once, She'll show the sweeter Sir. _Rod._ You can be pleas'd, though Sometimes to take a tamer? _Mar._ 'Tis a truth Sir, So she be handsome, and not ill condition'd. _Rod._ A Soldier should not be so curious. _Marc._ I can make shift with any for a heat Sir. _Rod._ Nay, there you wrong your youth too: and however You are pleas'd to appear to me, which shews well Signior, A tougher soul than your few years can testifie: Yet, my young Sir, out of mine own experience When my spring was, I am able to confute ye, And say, y' had rather come to th' shock of eies, And boldly march up to your Mistriss mouth, Then to the Cannons. _Mar._ That's as their lading is Sir. _Rod._ There be Trenches Fitter and warmer for your years, and safer Than where the bullet plaies. _Mar._ Ther's it I doubt Sir. _Rod._ You'll easily find that faith: But come, be liberal, What kind of Woman, could you make best wars with? _Mar._ They are all but heavy marches. _Rod._ Fie Marckantonio, Beauty in no more reverence? _Mar._ In the Sex Sir, I honor it, and next to honor, love it, For there is only beauty; and that sweetness That was first meant for modesty: sever it And put it in one woman, it appears not, 'Tis of too rare a nature, she too gross To mingle with it. _Rod._ This is a meer heresie. _Mar[c]._ Which makes 'em ever mending; for that gloss That cozens us for beauty, is but bravery, An outward shew of things well set, no more: For heavenly beauty, is as heaven it self Sir, Too excellent for object, and what is seen Is but the vail then, airy clouds; grant this It may be seen, 'tis but like stars in twinklings.