Mir. Yes, sure, and certain;
And hold it positively, as a principle,
As ye are strange things, and made of strange fires and fluxes,
So we are allow’d as strange ways to obtain ye,
But not to hold; we are all created errant.

Ori. You told me other tales.

Mir. I not deny it;
I have tales of all sorts for all sorts of women,
And protestations likewise of all sizes,
As they have vanities to make us coxcombs:
If I obtain a good turn, so it is,
I am thankful for it; if I be made an ass,
The ’mends are in mine own hands, or the surgeon’s,
And there’s an end on’t.

Ori. Do not you love me then?

Mir. As I love others; heartily I love thee;
When I am high and lusty, I love thee cruelly:
After I have made a plenteous meal, and satisfied
My senses with all delicates, come to me,
And thou shalt see how I love thee.

Ori. Will not you marry me?

Mir. No, certain, no, for anything I know yet:
I must not lose my liberty, dear lady,
And, like a wanton slave, cry for more shackles.
What should I marry for? do I want anything?
Am I an inch the farther from my pleasure?
Why should I be at charge to keep a wife of mine own,
When other honest married men’s will ease me,
And thank me too, and be beholding to me?
Thou think’st I am mad for a maidenhead; thou art cozen’d:
Or, if I were addicted to that diet,
Can you tell me where I should have one? Thou art eighteen now,
And if thou hast they maidenhead yet extant,
Sure, ’tis as big as cods-head; and those grave dishes
I never love to deal withal. Dost thou see this book here?
Look over all these ranks; all these are women,
Maids, and pretenders to maidenheads; these are my conquests;
All these I swore to marry, as I swore to thee,
With the same reservation, and most righteously:
Which I need not have done neither; for, alas, they made no scruple,
And I enjoyed ’em at my will, and left ’em:
Some of ’em are married since, and were as pure maids again,
Nay, o’ my conscience, better than they were bred for;
The rest, fine sober women.

Ori. Are you not ashamed, sir?

Mir. No, by my troth, sir; there’s no shame belongs to it;
I hold it as commendable to be wealthy in pleasure,
As others do in rotten sheep and pasture.

Enter De GARD.

Ori. Are all my hopes come to this? Is there no faith,
No troth, nor modesty, in men?


De Ga. How now, sister?
Why weeping thus? Did I not prophesy?
Come, tell me why—

Ori. I am not well; pray ye pardon me.


De Ga. Now, monsieur Mirabel, what ails my sister?
You have been playing the wag with her.

Mir. As I take it,
She is crying for a cod-piece. Is she gone?
Lord, what an age is this! I was calling for ye;
For, as I live, I thought she would have ravish’d me.

De Ga. You are merry, sir.

Mir. Thou know’st this book, De Gard, this inventory?

  By PanEris using Melati.

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