The White Devil Part 23

Brach. Is not this lip mine?

Vit. Yes; thus to bite it off, rather than give it thee.

Flam. Turn to my lord, good sister.

Vit. Hence, you pander!

Flam. Pander! am I the author of your sin?

Vit. Yes; he 's a base thief that a thief lets in.

Flam. We 're blown up, my lord----

Brach. Wilt thou hear me?

Once to be jealous of thee, is t' express That I will love thee everlastingly, And never more be jealous.

Vit. O thou fool, Whose greatness hath by much o'ergrown thy wit!

What dar'st thou do, that I not dare to suffer, Excepting to be still thy wh.o.r.e? for that, In the sea's bottom sooner thou shalt make A bonfire.

Flam. Oh, no oaths, for G.o.d's sake!

Brach. Will you hear me?

Vit. Never.

Flam. What a d.a.m.n'd imposthume is a woman's will!

Can nothing break it? [Aside.] Fie, fie, my lord, Women are caught as you take tortoises, She must be turn'd on her back. Sister, by this hand I am on your side.--Come, come, you have wrong'd her; What a strange credulous man were you, my lord, To think the Duke of Florenc would love her!

Will any mercer take another's ware When once 'tis tows'd and sullied? And yet, sister, How scurvily this forwardness becomes you!

Young leverets stand not long, and women's anger Should, like their flight, procure a little sport; A full cry for a quarter of an hour, And then be put to th' dead quat.

Brach. Shall these eyes, Which have so long time dwelt upon your face, Be now put out?

Flam. No cruel landlady i' th' world, Which lends forth groats to broom-men, and takes use For them, would do 't.

Hand her, my lord, and kiss her: be not like A ferret, to let go your hold with blowing.

Brach. Let us renew right hands.

Vit. Hence!

Brach. Never shall rage, or the forgetful wine, Make me commit like fault.

Flam. Now you are i' th' way on 't, follow 't hard.

Brach. Be thou at peace with me, let all the world Threaten the cannon.

Flam. Mark his penitence; Best natures do commit the grossest faults, When they 're given o'er to jealousy, as best wine, Dying, makes strongest vinegar. I 'll tell you: The sea 's more rough and raging than calm rivers, But not so sweet, nor wholesome. A quiet woman Is a still water under a great bridge; A man may shoot her safely.

Vit. O ye dissembling men!

Flam. We suck'd that, sister, From women's b.r.e.a.s.t.s, in our first infancy.

Vit. To add misery to misery!

Brach. Sweetest!

Vit. Am I not low enough?

Ay, ay, your good heart gathers like a s...o...b..ll, Now your affection 's cold.

Flam. Ud's foot, it shall melt To a heart again, or all the wine in Rome Shall run o' th' lees for 't.

Vit. Your dog or hawk should be rewarded better Than I have been. I 'll speak not one word more.

Flam. Stop her mouth With a sweet kiss, my lord. So, Now the tide 's turn'd, the vessel 's come about.

He 's a sweet armful. Oh, we curl-hair'd men Are still most kind to women! This is well.

Brach. That you should chide thus!

Flam. Oh, sir, your little chimneys Do ever cast most smoke! I sweat for you.

Couple together with as deep a silence, As did the Grecians in their wooden horse.