_Zuc._ Yet I hope a man of wit may prevent his own mishap, or if he can prevent it---- _Herc._ Yet---- _Zuc._ Yet make it known yet, and so known that the world may tremble with only thinking of it. Well, Fawn, whom shall I marry now? O Heaven! that God made for a man no other means of procreation and maintaining the world peopled but by women! O![254] that we could increase like roses, by being slipp'd one from another,[255]--or like flies, procreate with blowing, or any other way than by a woman,--by women, who have no reason in their love or mercy in their hate, no rule in their pity, no pity in their revenge, no judgment to speak, and yet no patience to hold their tongues; Man's opposite, the more held down, they swell; 410 Above them naught but will, beneath them naught but hell. _Herc._ Or, that since Heaven hath given us no other means to allay our furious appetite, no other way of increasing our progeny,--since we must entreat and beg for assuagement of our passions, and entertainment of our affections,--why did not Heaven make us a nobler creature than women, to show unto?--some admirable deity, of an uncorruptible beauty, that might[256] be worth our knees, the expense of our heat, and the crinkling of our hams.[257] 420 _Zuc._ But that we must court, sonnet, flatter, bribe, kneel, sue to so feeble and imperfect, inconstant, idle, vain, hollow bubble, as woman is! O, my Fawn![258] _Herc._ O, my lord, look who here comes! _Enter_ ZOYA, _supported by a Gentleman Usher, followed by_ HEROD _and_ NYMPHADORO, _with much state; soft music playing_. _Zuc._ Death o' man! is she delivered? _Herc._ Delivered! Yes, O my Don, delivered! Yes, Donna Zoya,--the grace of society,--the music of sweetly agreeing perfection,--more clearly chaste than ice or frozen rain,--that glory of her sex,--that wonder of wit,--that beauty more fresh'd than any cool and trembling wind,--that now only wish of a man,--is delivered!--is delivered! 432 _Zuc._ How? _Herc._ From Don Zuccone, that dry scaliness,--that sarpego,--that barren drouth, and shame of all humanity! _Zoy._ What fellow's that? _Nym._ Don Zuccone, your sometime husband. _Enter_ PHILOCALIA. _Zoy._ Alas! poor creature. _Phil._ The princess prays your company. _Zoy._ I wait upon her pleasure. 440 [_All but_ HERCULES, ZUCCONE, HEROD, _and_ NYMPHADORO, _depart_. _Zuc._ Gentleman, why hazard you your reputation in shameful company with such a branded creature? _Herod._ Miserable man! whose fortune were beyond tears to be pitied, but that thou art the ridiculous author of thine own laugh'd-at mischief. _Zuc._ Without paraphrase, your meaning?