Mir. But you can love, for all this; and delight too,
For all your set austerity, to hear
Of a good husband, lady?

Lil. You say true, sir;
For, by my troth, I have heard of none these ten years,
They are so rare; and there are so many, sir,
So many longing women on their knees too,
That pray the dropping-down of these good husbands—
The dropping-down from Heaven; for they are not bred here—
That you may guess at all my hope, but hearing—

Mir. Why may not I be one?

Lil. You were near ’em once, sir,
When ye came o’er the Alps; those are near Heaven:
But since you miss’d that happiness, there’s no hope of you.

Mir. Can ye love a man?

Lil. Yes, if the man be lovely;
That is, be honest, modest. I would have him valiant,
His anger slow, but certain for his honour;
Travell’d he should be, but through himself exactly,
For ’tis fairer to know manners well than countries;
He must be no vain talker, nor no lover
To hear himself talk; they are brags of a wanderer,
Of one finds no retreat for fair behaviour.
Would you learn more?

Mir. Yes.

Lil. Learn to hold your peace, then:
Fond girls are got with tongues, women with tempers.

Mir. Women, with I know what; but let that vanish:
Go thy way, good wife Bias! Sure thy husband
Must have a strong philosopher’s stone, he will ne’er please thee else.
Here’s a starcht piece of austerity!—Do you hear, father?
Do you hear this moral lecture?

La Ca. Yes, and like it.

Mir. Why, there’s your judgment now; there’s an old bolt shot!
This thing must have the strangest observation
(Do you mark me, father?) when she is married once,
The strangest custom, too, of admiration
On all she does and speaks, ’twill be past sufferance;
I must not lie with her in common language,
Nor cry, “Have at thee, Kate! ” I shall be hiss’d then;
Nor eat my meat without the sauce of sentence,
Your powder’d beef and problems, a rare diet!
My first son monsieur Aristotle, I know it,
Great master of the metaphysicks, or so;
The second, Solon, and the best law-setter;
And I must look Egyptian god-fathers,
Which will be no small trouble: My eldest daughter
Sappho, or such a fiddling kind of poetess,
And brought up, invitâa Minerva, at her needle;
My dogs must look their names too, and all Spartan,
Lelaps, Melampus; no more Fox and Baudiface.
I married to a sullen set of sentences?
To one that weighs her words and her behaviours
In the gold weights of discretion! I’ll be hang’d first.

La Ca. Pr’ythee reclaim thyself.

Mir. Pray ye, give me time then:
If they can set me anything to play at,
That seems fit for a gamester, have at the fairest!
Till then, see more and try more!

La Ca. Take your time then;
I’ll bar you no fair liberty.—Come, gentlemen;
And, ladies, come; to all, once more, a welcome!
And now let’s in to supper.

[Exit.

Mir. How dost like ’em?

Pinac. They are fair enough, but of so strange behaviours—

Mir. Too strange for me: I must have those have mettle,
And mettle to my mind. Come, let’s be merry.