_Dor._ You may trust him With any secret that concerns my life; Falsehood and he are strangers: had you, ladies, Been bless'd with such a servant, you had never Forsook that way, your journey even half ended, That leads to joys eternal. In the place Of loose lascivious mirth, he would have stirr'd you To holy meditations; and so far He is from flattery, that he would have told you, Your pride being at the height, how miserable And wretched things you were, that, for an hour Of pleasure here, have made a desperate sale Of all your right in happiness hereafter. He must not leave me; without him I fall: In this life he's my servant, in the other A wish'd companion. _Ang._ 'Tis not in the devil, Nor all his wicked arts, to shake such goodness. _Dor._ But you were speaking, lady. _Cal._ As a friend And lover of your safety, and I pray you So to receive it; and, if you remember How near in love our parents were, that we, Even from the cradle, were brought up together, Our amity increasing with our years, We cannot stand suspected. _Dor._ To the purpose. _Cal._ We come, then, as good angels, Dorothea, To make you happy; and the means so easy, That, be not you an enemy to yourself, Already you enjoy it. _Christ._ Look on us, Ruin'd as you are, once, and brought unto it, By your persuasion. _Cal._ But what follow'd, lady? Leaving those blessings which our gods gave freely, And shower'd upon us with a prodigal hand, As to be noble born, youth, beauty, wealth, And the free use of these without control, Check, curb, or stop, such is our law's indulgence! All happiness forsook us; bonds and fetters, For amorous twines; the rack and hangman's whips, In place of choice delights; our parents' curses Instead of blessings; scorn, neglect, contempt, Fell thick upon us. _Christ._ This consider'd wisely, We made a fair retreat; and reconciled To our forsaken gods, we live again In all prosperity. _Cal._ By our example, Bequeathing misery to such as love it, Learn to be happy. The Christian yoke's too heavy For such a dainty neck; it was framed rather To be the shrine of Venus, or a pillar, More precious than crystal, to support Our Cupid's image: our religion, lady, Is but a varied pleasure; yours a toil Slaves would shrink under.