‘How near am I to a happiness That earth exceeds not! Not another like it: The treasures of the deep are not so precious, As are the conceal’d comforts of a man Lock’d up in woman’s love. I scent the air Of blessings when I come but near the house: What a delicious breath marriage sends forth! The violet-bed’s not sweeter. Honest wedlock Is like a banquetting-house built in a garden, On which the spring’s chaste flowers take delight To cast their modest odours; when base lust, With all her powders, paintings, and best pride, Is but a fair house built by a ditch side. When I behold a glorious dangerous strumpet, Sparkling in beauty and destruction too, Both at a twinkling, I do liken straight Her beautified body to a goodly temple That’s built on vaults where carcasses lie rotting; And so by little and little I shrink back again, And quench desire with a cool meditation; And I’m as well, methinks. Now for a welcome Able to draw men’s envies upon man: A kiss now that will hang upon my lip, As sweet as morning dew upon a rose, And full as long; after a five days’ fast She’ll be so greedy now and cling about me: I take care how I shall be rid of her; And here ‘t begins.’ This dream is dissipated by the entrance of Bianca and his Mother. ‘_Bian._ Oh, sir, you’re welcome home. _Moth._ Oh, is he come? I am glad on ‘t. _Lean._ (_Aside._) Is that all? Why this is dreadful now as sudden death To some rich man, that flatters all his sins With promise of repentance when he’s old, And dies in the midway before he comes to ‘t. Sure you’re not well, Bianca! How dost, prithee? _Bian._ I have been better than I am at this time. _Lean._ Alas, I thought so. _Bian._ Nay, I have been worse too, Than now you see me, sir. _Lean._ I’m glad thou mendst yet, I feel my heart mend too. How came it to thee? Has any thing dislik’d thee in my absence? _Bian._ No, certain, I have had the best content That Florence can afford. _Lean._ Thou makest the best on ‘t: Speak, mother, what ‘s the cause? you must needs know. _Moth._ Troth, I know none, son; let her speak herself; Unless it be the same gave Lucifer a tumbling cast; that’s pride. _Bian._ Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind; I’d have some pleasant lodging i’ th’ high street, sir; Or if ’twere near the court, sir, that were much better; ’Tis a sweet recreation for a gentlewoman To stand in a bay-window, and see gallants. _Lean._ Now I have another temper, a mere stranger To that of yours, it seems; I should delight To see none but yourself.