The body of a man is of the self-same mould[43] As ox or horse; no murder to kill these. As for that only part which makes us man, Murder wants power to touch't. O wit, how vile! How hellish art thou, when thou raisest nature 220 'Gainst sacred faith! Think more: to kill a friend To gain a woman! to lose a virtuous self For appetite and sensual end, whose very having Loseth all appetite, and gives satiety! That corporal end, remorse and inward blushings, Forcing us loathe the steam of our own heats; Whilst friendship closed in virtue, being spiritual, Tastes no such languishings, and moments' pleasure With much repentance; but like rivers flow, And further that they run they bigger grow. 230 Lord, how was I misgone! how easy 'tis to err, When passion will not give us leave to think! A learn'd, that is an honest man, may fear, And lust, and rage, and malice,[44] and anything, When he is taken uncollected suddenly: 'Tis sin of cold blood, mischief with waked eyes, That is the damnèd and the truly[45] vice; Not he that's passionless, but he 'bove passion's wise. My friend shall know it all. [_Exit._ [38] "Grand grincome"--the pox. [39] A nickname for citizens. (Ed. 1. "atte-cappes;" ed. 2. "art-caps.") [40] A contemptuous exclamation. [41] So ed. 1.--Ed. 2. "pretty." [42] From a song in Robert Jones's _First Book of Songs and Airs_ [1601]: "My mistress sings no other song But still complains I did her wrong: Believe her not, it is not so, I did but kiss her and let her go," &c. [43] Old eds. "soule." [44] The verb _malice_ is not uncommon. It is used by Spenser, Marlowe, Ben Jonson, &c. [45] So ed. 1.--Ed. 2. "truest." SCENE III. _A Tavern._ _Enter_ Master MULLIGRUB _and_ Mistress MULLIGRUB, _she with a bag of money_. _Mistress Mul._ It is right, I assure you, just fifteen pounds. _Mul._ Well, Cocledemoy, 'tis thou putt'st me to this charge; but, and I catch thee, I'll charge thee with as many irons. Well, is the barber come? I'll be trimm'd, and then to Cheapside to buy a fair piece of plate, to furnish the loss. Is the barber come? _Mistress Mul._ Truth, husband, surely heaven is not pleased with our vocation. We do wink at the sins of our people. Our wines are protestants; and I speak it to my grief, and to the burthen of my conscience, we fry our fish with salt butter. 12 _Mul._ Go, look to your business; mend the matter, and score false with a vengeance. [_Exit_ Mistress MULLIGRUB. _Enter_ COCLEDEMOY _like a barber_. Welcome, friend, whose man?