_Par._ There's little can be said in 't; 'tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity, is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He 130 that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity murders itself; and should be buried in highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is 135 peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by 't: out with 't! within ten year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the principal itself not much the worse: away with 't! 140 _Hel._ How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking? _Par._ Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne'er it likes. 'Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with 't while 'tis vendible; answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, 145 wears her cap out of fashion; richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French withered pears, it looks ill, it eats drily; 150 marry, 'tis a withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet 'tis a withered pear: will you any thing with it? _Hel._ Not my virginity yet.... There shall your master have a thousand loves, A mother and a mistress and a friend, 155 A poenix, captain and an enemy, A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign, A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear; His humble ambition, proud humility, His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet, 160 His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms, That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he-- I know not what he shall. God send him well! The court's a learning place, and he is one-- 165 _Par._ What one, i' faith? _Hel._ That I wish well. 'Tis pity-- _Par._ What's pity? _Hel._ That wishing well had not a body in't, Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born, 170 Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And show what we alone must think, which never Returns us thanks. _Enter_ Page. _Page._ Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you. [_Exit._ 175 _Par._ Little Helen, farewell: if I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court. _Hel._ Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.