_Alb._ If love be holy; if that mystery Of co-united hearts be sacrament; If the unbounded goodness have infused A sacred ardour, if a mutual love, Into our species, of those amorous joys, Those sweets of life, those comforts even in death, Spring from a cause above our reason's reach;-- If that clear flame deduce his heat from heaven;-- 'Tis like his cause,[472] eternal, always One, As is th' instiller of divinest love, 50 Unchanged by time, immortal maugre death! But O, 'tis grown a figment, love a jest, A comic poesy! The soul of man is rotten, Even to the core;--no sound affection. Our love is hollow-vaulted--stands on props Of circumstance, profit, or ambitious hopes! The other tissue gown, or chain of pearl, Makes my coy minx to nuzzel[473] 'twixt the breasts Of her lull'd husband; t'other carkanet Deflowers that lady's bed. One hundred more 60 Marries that loathèd blowze;--one ten-pound odds, In promised jointure, makes the hard-palm'd sire Enforce his daughter's tender lips to start At the sharp touch of some loath'd stubbèd beard; The first pure time, the golden age, is fled. Heaven knows I lie,--'tis now the age of gold,-- For it all marreth, and even virtue's sold! _Slip._ Master, will you trust me, and I'll---- _Alb._ Yes, boy, I'll trust thee. Babes and fools I'll trust; But servants' faith, wives' love, or female's lust,-- 70 A usurer and the devil sooner. Now, were I dead, Methinks I see a huff-cap swaggering sir Pawning my plate, my jewels mortgage; nay, Selling outright[474] the purchase of my brows, Whilst my poor fatherless, lean, totter'd[475] son-- My gentry's relics, my house's only prop-- Is saw'd asunder, lies forlorn, all bleak Unto the griefs of sharp necessities, Whilst his father-in-law, his father-in-devil, or d-d-d-d-devil-f-f-f-father, Or who, who, who, who,--What You Will!-- 80 When is the marriage morn? _Slip._ Even next rising sun. _Alb._ Good, good, good! Go to my brother Andrea:[476] Tell him I'll lurk; stay, tell him I'll lurk: stay.-- Now is Albano's marriage-bed new hung With fresh rich curtains! Now are my valence up, Emboss'd with orient pearl, my grandsire's gift! Now are the lawn sheets fumed with violets,[477] To fresh the pall'd lascivious appetite! Now work the cooks, the pastry sweats with slaves; The march-panes[478] glitter: now, now, the musicians 90 Hover with nimble sticks o'er squeaking crowds,[479] Tickling the dried guts of a mewing cat. The tailors, starchers, sempsters, butchers, poulterers, mercers,--all, all, all,--now, now, now,--none think o' me,--the f-f-f-French is _te f-f-f-fine man, de p-p-p-pock man, de----_ _Slip._ Peace, peace! stand conceal'd. Yonder, by all descriptions, is he would be husband of my mistress;--your wife! hah, meat, hah!