What would you now? are ye not pleased yet with me? You shall not wish me to be more lascivious Than I intend to be. Moth. Strike not me cold. Cast. How often have you charg'd me on your blessing Put not all out with woman's wilful follies. That haunts too many mothers; kind, forgive me, My words prevail'd, when they were wickedness, How much more now when they are just and good! Cast. I wonder what you mean! are not you she, For whose infect persuasions, I could scarce Kneel out my prayers, and had much ado, In three hours' reading, to untwist so much Of the black serpent as you wound about me? Moth. 'Tis unfruitful, held tedious to repeat what 's past. I'm now your present mother. Cast. Pish, now 'tis too late. Moth. Bethink again, thou know'st not what thou say'st. Cast. No! deny advancement! treasure! the duke's son ! Moth. O see, I spoke those words, and now they poison me. What will the deed do then? Advancement, true; as high as shame can pitch! For treasure; who e'er knew a harlot rich? The duke's son; oh, when women are young courtiers, They are sure to be old beggars; To know the miseries most harlots taste, Thou 'dst wish thyself unborn when thou art unchaste. Cast. O mother, let me twine about your neck, And kiss you till soul melt on your lips; my I did but this to try you. Moth. O speak truth! Cast. Indeed I did not; for no tongue has force If maidens would, men's words could have no power; A virgin's honour is a crystal tower, Which, being weak, is guarded with good spirits; Until she basely yields, no ill inherits. Moth. O happy child! faith, and thy birth hath sav'd me. 'Mongst thousand daughters, happiest of all others; Be thou a glass for maids, and I for mothers. Evil Report after Death. What is it to have A flattering false insculption on a tomb, And in men's hearts reproach? the bowel'd corpse May be sear'd in, but (with free tongue I speak) The faults of great men through their sear-clothes break. Bastards. O what a grief 'tis, that a man should live Begot against the seventh commandment, Too nice respects in Courtship. Ceremony has made many fools. It is as easy way unto a duchess, As to a hatted dame, if her love answer : PHILASTER; OR, LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING: A TRAGI-COMEDY. BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLEtcher. PHILASTER tells the PRINCESS ARETHUSA how he first found the boy BELLARIO. I have a boy, sent by the gods, Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck, Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst, Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs, |