What is your wife, a woman, or a saint?

A wife, or some bright angel come from heav'n?
Are you not mov'd at this strange spectacle?
This day I have beheld a miracle.

When I attempt this sacred nuptial life,

I beg of heaven to find me such a wife.
Y. Art. Ha, ha! a miracle, a prodigy !
To see a woman weep is as much pity
As to see foxes digg'd out of their holes.
If thou wilt pleasure me, let me see thee less;
Grieve much; they say grief often shortens life :
Come not too near me, 'till I call thee wife,
And that will be but seldom. I will tell thee
How thou shalt win my heart-die suddenly,
And I'll become a lusty widower:

The longer thy life lasts, the more my hate
And loathing still increaseth towards thee.

When I come home and find thee cold as earth,
Then will I love thee: thus thou know'st my mind.
Come, Master Lusam, let us in to dine.

Y. Lus. O, sir, you too much affect this evil;

Poor saint! why wer't thou yok'd thus with a devil? [aside. [exeunt Y. Art, and Y. Lus.

Mis. Art. If thou wilt win my heart, die suddenly!

But that my soul was bought at such a rate,
At such a high price as my Saviour's blood,
I would not stick to lose it with a stab;
But, virtue, banish all such fantasies.
He is my husband, and I love him well;
Next to my own soul's health I tender him,

And would give all the pleasures of the world,
To buy his love if I might purchase it.

I'll follow him, and like a servant wait,

And strive by all means to prevent his hate.

Enter OLD MASTER ARTHUR and OLD MASTER LUSAM.

O. Art. This is my son's house, were it best go in, How say you, Master Lusam?

O. Lus. How, go in, how say you, sir?

O. Art. I say 'tis best.

O. Lus. Aye, sir, say you so? so say I too.

O. Art. Nay, nay, it is not best; I'll tell you why.
Haply the fire of hate is quite extinct

From the dead embers; now to rake them up,
Should the least spark of discontent appear,
To make the flame of hatred burn afresh,
The heat of this dissension might scorch us;
Which, in his own cold ashes smother'd up,
May die in silence, and revive no more :
And therefore tell me, is it best or no?
O. Lus. How say you, sir?

O. Art. I say it is not best.

O. Lus. Mass, you say well, sir, and so say I too.
O. Art. But shall we lose our labour to come hither,

And, without sight of our two children,

Go back again? nay, we will in, that's sure.

O. Lus. In, quotha, do you make a doubt of that;
Shall we come thus far, and in such post haste,
And have our children here, and both within,
And not behold them e'er our back-return 2

[exit.

It were unfriendly, and unfatherly.

Come, Master Arthur, pray you follow me.

O. Art. Nay, but hark you, sir, will you not knock?
O. Lus. Is't best to knock?

O. Art. Aye, knock in any case.

O. Lus. 'Twas well you put it in my mind to knock,

I had forgotten it else, I promise you.

O. Art. Tush! is't not my son's and your daughter's

door,

And shall we two stand knocking? Lead the way.

O. Lus. Knock at our children's doors! that were a jest. Are we such fools, to make ourselves so strange Where we should still be boldest? In, for shame! We will not stand upon such ceremonies.

SCENE III.

The Street.

Enter ANSELM and FULLER.

Ful. Speak, in what cue, sir, do you find

[exeunt.

your heart,

Now thou hast slept a little on thy love?

Ans. Like one that strives to shun a little plash

Of shallow water, and, avoiding it,

Plunges into a river past his depth :

Like one that from a small spark steps aside,

And falls in headlong to a greater flame.

Ful. But in such fires scorch not thyself, for shame!

If she be fire, thou art so far from burning,

That thou hast scarce yet warm'd thee at her face ;

But, list to me, I'll turn thy heart from love,

And make thee loath all of the feminine sex.

They that have known me, knew me once of name
To be a perfect wencher I have tried

All sorts, all sects, all states, and find them still
Inconstant, fickle, always variable.

Attend me, man! I will prescribe a method

How thou shalt win her without all peradventure.
Ans. That would I gladly hear.

Ful. I was once like thee,

A sigher, melancholy, humourist,

Crosser of arms, a goer without garters,

A hatband-hater, and a busk-point* wearer,
One that did use much bracelets made of hair,
Rings on my fingers, jewels in mine ears,
And, now and then, a wench's carkanet,
That had two letters for her name in pearl:

Scarfs, garters, bands, wrought waistcoats, gold-stitch'd

caps,

A thousand of those female fooleries;

But when I look'd into the glass of reason, straight I began
To loath that female bravery, and henceforth

Study to cry peccavi to the world.

Ans. I pray you, to your former argument: Prescribe a means to win my best belov❜d.

Ful. First, be not bashful, bar all blushing tricks, Be not too apish female, do not come

*Busk-point, the lace with its tag which secured the end of the busk, a piece of wood or whalebone worn by women in front of the stays to keep them straight.

With foolish sonnets to present her with,

With legs, with curtsies, congees, and such like :
Nor with penn'd speeches, or too far-fetch'd sighs,
I hate such antique quaint formality.

-Ans. Oh, but I cannot watch occasion,

She dashes every proffer with a frown.

Ful. A frown, a fool! art thou afraid of frowns?
He that will leave occasion for a frown,

Were I his judge (all you his case bemoan)
His doom should be, ever to lie alone.

Ans. I cannot chuse but when a wench says nay,
To take her at her word and leave my suit.
Ful. Continue that opinion, and be sure
To die a virgin chaste, a maiden pure.
It was my chance once, in my wanton days,
To court a wench; hark, and I'll tell thee how :

I came unto my love, and she look'd coy,
I spake unto my love, she turn'd aside,
I touch'd my love and 'gan with her to toy,
But she sat mute, for anger or for pride;

I striv'd and kiss'd my love, she cry'd,―away.

Thou would'st have left her thus, I made her stay.
I catch'd my love, and wrung her by the hand,

I took my love and set her on my knee,
And pull'd her to me; oh, you spoil my band,
You hurt me, sir, pray let me go, quoth she.
I'm glad, quoth I, that you have found your tongue,
And still my love I by the finger wrung.

I ask'd her if she lov'd me; she said, no.

I bad her swear; she straight calls for a book;

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