_Thier._ Move not whilst I prepare her: may her peace Like his whose innocence the gods are pleas'd with, And offering at their Altars, gives his soul Far purer than those fires; pull heaven upon her, You holy powers, no humane spot dwell in her, No love of any thing, but you and goodness, Tie her to earth, fear be a stranger to her, And all weak blouds affections, but thy hope Let her bequeath to Women: hear me heaven, Give her a spirit masculine, and noble, Fit for your selves to ask, and me to offer. Oh let her meet my blow, doat on her death; And as a wanton Vine bows to the pruner, That by his cutting off, more may increase, So let her fall to raise me fruit; hail woman. The happiest, and the best (if the dull Will Do not abuse thy fortune) _France_ e'er found yet. _Ordel._ Sh' is more than dull, Sir, less, and worse than Woman, That may inherit such an infinite As you propound, a greatness so near goodness; And brings a Will to rob her. _Thier._ Tell me this then, Was there e'er woman yet, or may be found, That for fair Fame, unspotted memory, For virtues sake, and only for it self sake Has, or dare make a story? _Ordel._ Many dead Sir, Living I thin[ke] as many. _Thier._ Say, the kingdom May from a womans Will receive a blessing, The King and kingdom, not a private safety. A general blessing, Lady. _Ordel._ A general curse Light on her heart, denies it. _Thier._ Full of honor; And such examples as the former ages Were but dim shadows of, and empty figures. _Ordel._ You strangely stir me, Sir, and were my weakness In any other flesh but modest womans, You should not ask more questions, may I do it? _Thier._ You may, and which is more, you must. _Ordel._ I joy in't, Above a moderate gladness, Sir, you promise It shall be honest. _Thier._ As ever time discover'd. _Ordel._ Let it be what it may then, what it dare, I have a mind will hazard it. _Thier._ But hark ye, What may that woman merit, makes this blessing! _Ordel._ Only her duty, Sir. _Thier._ 'Tis terrible. _Ordel._ 'Tis so much the more noble. _Thier._ 'Tis full of fearful shadows. _Ordel._ So is sleep, Sir. Or any thing that's meerly ours, and mortal, We were begotten gods else; but those fears Feeling but once the fires of nobler thoughts, Flie, like the shapes of clouds we form, to nothing. _Thier._ Suppose it death. _Ordel._ I do.