_La._ But where do Ladies, Sir, find such kind Husbands? Perhaps you have heard The Rheumatick story of some loving Chandler now, Or some such melting fellow that you talk So prodigal of mens kindness: I confess Sir, Many of those wives are happy, their ambition Does reach no higher, than to Love and Ignorance, Which makes an excellent Husband, and a fond one: Now Sir, your great ones aim at height, and cunning, And so are oft deceiv'd, yet they must venture it; For 'tis a Ladies contumely, Sir, To have a Lord an Ignorant; then the worlds voice Will deem her for a wanton, e'r she taste on't: But to deceive a wise man, to whose circumspection, The world resigns it self, with all his envy; 'Tis less dishonor to us [then] to fall, Because his believ'd wisdom keeps out all. _Sold._ Would I were the man, Lady, that should venture His wisdom to your goodness. _La._ You might fail In the return, as many men have done, Sir: I dare not justifie what is to come of me, Because I know it not, though I hope virtuously; Marry what's past, or present, I durst put Into a good mans hand, which if he take Upon my word for good, it shall not cozen him. _Sol._ No, nor hereafter? _La._ It may hap so too, Sir: A womans goodness, when she is a wife, Lies much upon a mans desert, believe it Sir, If there be fault in her, I'll pawn my life on't, 'Tis first in him, if she were ever good, That makes one; knowing not a Husband yet, Or what he may be: I promise no more virtues, Than I may well perform, for that were cozenage. _Sol._ Happy were he that had you with all fears, That's my opinion, Lady. _Enter_ Shamount _and a servant list'ning_. _Serv._ What say you now, Sir? Dare you give confidence to your own eyes? _Sham._ Not yet I dare not. _Serv._ No? _Sham._ Scarce yet, or yet: Although I see 'tis he. Why can a thing, That's but my self divided, be so false? _Serv._ Nay, do but mark how the chair plays hi[s] part too: How amoro[u]sly 'tis bent. _Sh[a]m._ Hell take thy bad thoughts, For they are strange ones. Never take delight To make a torment worse. Look on 'em heaven, For that's a brother: send me a fair enemy, And take him; for a fouler Fiend there breathes not: I will not sin to think there's ill in her, But what's of his producing. Yet goodness, whose inclosure is but flesh, Holds out oft times but sorrily. But as black Sir, As ever kindred was: I hate mine own bloud, Because i[t] is so near thine. Live without honesty, And mayst thou dye with an unmoist'ned eye, And no tear follow thee. [_Ex._ Shamont, _Servant_. _La._ Y'are wond'rous merry Sir; I would your Brother heard you.