_Gom._ Yet you did resist him, when he was An earnest suitor to you. _Ori._ Yes I did; And if I were again sought to, I should; But must ascribe it rather to the fate That did appoint me yours, than any power Which I can call mine own. _Gom._ Even so? _Abd._ Thanks fortune, The plot I had to raise, in him, doubts of her, Thou hast effected. _Ori._ I could tell you too, What cause I have to love him, with what reason. In thankfulnes, he may expect from me, All due observance; but I pass that, as A benefit, for which, in my behalf, You are his debtor. _Abd._ I perceive it takes, By his chang'd looks. _Ori._ He is not in the City? Is he my Lord? _Gom._ Who Lady? _Ori._ Why _Miranda_, Having you here, can there be any else Worth my enquiry? _Gom._ This is somewhat more Than love to virtue. _Ori._ Faith when he comes hither (As sometimes, without question you shall meet him) Invite him home. _Gom._ To what end? _Ori._ To dine with us, Or sup. _Gom._ And then to take a hard bed with you: Mean you not so? _Ori._ If you could win him to it, 'Twould be the better; for his entertainment, Leave that to me, he shall find Noble usage, And from me a free welcome. _Gom._ Have you never Heard of a _Roman_ Lady (_Oriana_) Remembred as a president for Matrons, (Chaste ones, I pray you understand) whose husband Tax'd for his sowre breath by his enemy, Condemn'd his wife, for not acquainting him With his infirmity? _Ori._ 'Tis a common one; Her answer was, having kiss'd none but him, She thought it was a general disease All men were subject to; but what infer you From that my Lord? _Gom._ Why, that this virtuous Lady Had all her thoughts so fixed upon her Lord, That she could find no spare time to sing praises Of any other; nor would she imploy Her husband (though perhaps in debt to years As far as I am) for an instrument To bring home younger men that might delight her With their discourse, or-- _Ori._ What my Lord? _Gom._ Their persons, Or if I should speak plainer-- _Ori._ No it needs not, You have said enough to make my innocence know It is suspected. _Gom._ You betray your self To more than a suspition; could you else To me that live in nothing but love to you Make such a gross discovery, that your lust Had sold that heart I thought mine, to _Miranda_? Or rise to such a height in impudence, As to presume to work my yielding weakness To play for your bad ends, to my disgrace, The Wittal, or the Pander? _Ori._ Do not study To print more wounds, (for that were tyranny) Upon a heart that is pierced through already.