Was that which drew poor Eve from paradise.
Thy Syren's song could make me drown myself,
But I am tied unto the mast of truth.
Admit, my husband be inclin'd to vice,
My virtues may in time recall him home;
But, if we both should desp'rate run to sin,
We should abide certain destruction.
But he's like one, that over a sweet face
Puts a deformed vizard; for his soul
Is free from any such intents of ill:
Only to try my patience he puts on
An ugly shape of black intemperance;
Therefore, this blot of shame which he now wears,
I with my prayers will purge, wash with my tears.
[_Exit_.

ANS. Fuller!

FUL. Anselm!

ANS. How lik'st thou this?

FUL. As school-boys jerks, apes whips, as lions cocks,
As Furies do fasting-days, and devils crosses,
As maids to have their marriage-days put off;
I like it as the thing I most do loathe.
What wilt thou do? for shame, persist no more
In this extremity of frivolous love.
I see, my doctrine moves no precise ears,
But such as are profess'd inamoratos.