_Mal._ Leave your betraying smiles, And change the tunes of your inticing tongues To penitential prayers; for I am great In labour, even with anger, big with child Of womans rage, bigger than when my womb Was pregnant by thee: go seducer, flie Out of the world, let me the last wretch be Dishonored by thee: touch me not, I loath My very heart, because thou lay'st there long; A woman's well help'd up, that's confident In e'er a glittering outside on you all: Would I had honestly been match'd to some Poor Countrey-swain, e'er known the vanity Of Court: peace then had been my portion, Nor had been cozen'd by an hours pomp To be a whore unto my dying day. _Vit._ Oh the uncomfortable waies such women have, Their different speech and meaning, no assurance In what they say or do: Dissemblers Even in their prayers, as if the weeping _Greek_ That flatter'd _Troy_ a-fire, had been their Adam; Lyers, as if their mother had been made Only of all the falshood of the man, Dispos'd into that rib: Do I know this, And more: nay, all that can concern this Sex, With the true end of my creation? Can I with rational discourse sometimes Advance my spirit into Heaven, before 'T has shook hands with my body, and yet blindly Suffer my filthy flesh to master it, With sight of such fair frail beguiling objects? When I am absent, easily I resolve Ne'er more to entertain those strong desires That triumph o'er me, even to actual sin; Yet when I meet again those sorcerers eies, Their beams my hardest resolutions thaw, As if that cakes of Ice and _July_ met, And her sighs powerful as the violent North, Like a light feather twirl me round about And leave me in mine own low state again. What ayl'st thou? prethee weep not: Oh, those tears If they were true, and rightly spent, would raise A flow'ry spring i'th' midst of _January_: Celestial Ministers with Chrystal cups Would stoop to save 'em for immortal drink: But from this passion; why all this? _Mal._ Do ye ask? You are marrying: having made me unfit For any man, you leave me fit for all: Porters must be my burthens now, to live, And fitting me your self for Carts, and Beadles, You leave me to 'em: And who of all the world But the _virago_, your great Arch-foes daughter? But on: I care not, this poor rush: 'twill breed An excellent Comedy: ha, ha: 't makes me laugh: I cannot choose: the best is, some report It is a match for fear, not love o' your side. _Vit._ Why how the devil knows she, that I saw This Lady? are all whores, piec'd with some witch? I will be merry, 'faith 'tis true, sweet heart, I am to marry? _Mal._ Are you? you base Lord, By ---- I'll pistol thee.