_Herc._ The softness and very courtesy of her sex, as one that never lov'd any---- _Zuc._ But me! _Herc._ So much that he might hope to dishonour her, nor any so little that he might fear she disdain'd[262] him. O! the graces made her a soul as soft as spotless down upon the swan's fair breast that drew bright Cytherea's chariot. Yet think (I would not vex you), yet think how cruel[263] you were to her. 520 _Zuc._ As a tiger--as a very tiger! _Herc._ And never hope to be reconciled, never dream to be reconciled--never! _Zuc._ Never! Alas! good Fawn, what wouldst wish me to do now? _Herc._ Faith, go hang yourself, my Don; that's best, sure. _Zuc._ Nay, that's too good; for I'll do worse than that--I'll marry again. Where canst pick out a morsel for me, Fawn? 530 _Herc._ There is a modest, matron-like creature---- _Zuc._ What years, Fawn? _Herc._ Some fourscore, wanting one. _Zuc._ A good sober age! Is she wealthy? _Herc._ Very wealthy. _Zuc._ Excellent! _Herc._ She has three hairs on her scalp and four teeth in her head; a brow wrinkled and pucker'd like old parchment half burnt. She has had eyes. No woman's jawbones are more apparent; her sometimes envious lips now shrink in, and give her nose and her chin leave to kiss each other very moistly. As for her reverend mouth, it seldom opens, but the very breath that flies out of it infects the fowls of the air, and makes them drop down dead. Her breasts hang like cobwebs; her flesh will never make you cuckold; her bones may. 547 _Zuc._ But is she wealthy? _Herc._ Very wealthy. _Zuc._ And will she ha' me, art sure? _Herc._ No, sure, she will not have you. Why, do you think that a waiting-woman of three bastards, a strumpet nine times carted, or a hag whose eyes shoot poison--that has been an old witch, and is now turning into a gib-cat,[264]--what![265] will ha' you? Marry Don Zuccone, the contempt of women and the shame of men, that has afflicted, contemn'd so choice a perfection as Donna Zoya's! 557 _Zuc._ Alas! Fawn, I confess. What wouldst ha' me do? _Herc._ Hang yourself! You shall not marry--you cannot. I'll tell ye what ye shall do: there is a ship of fools setting forth; if you make[266] good means, and intreat hard, you may obtain a passage, man--be master's mate, I warrant you. _Zuc._ Fawn, thou art a scurvy bitter knave, and dost flout Dons to their faces; 'twas thou flattered'st me to this, and now thou laugh'st at me, dost? though indeed I had a certain proclivity, but thou madest me resolute: dost grin and gern?[267] O you comforters of life, helps in sickness, joys in death, and preservers of us, in our children, after death, women, have mercy on me! 570