_Jul._ You have wish'd me ill enough o' conscience, Make me no worse for shame; I see the more I work by way of service to obtain ye, You work the more upon me. Tell me truly (While I am able to believe a Woman, For if you use me thus, that faith will perish) What is your end, and whither you will pull me; Tell me, but tell me that I may not start at, And have a cause to curse ye.
_Lel._ Bless me goodness! To curse me did you say, Sir? let it be For too much loving you then, such a curse Kill me withal, and I shall be a _Martyr_, You have found a new way to reward my doting, And I confess a fit one for my folly, For you your self, if you have good within ye, And dare be Master of it, know how dearly This heart hath held you ever; Oh good Heaven! That I had never seen that false mans eyes, That dares reward me thus with fears and curses; Nor never heard the sweetness of that tongue, That will, when this is known, yet cozen women; Curse me, good _Julio_, curse me bitterly, I do deserve it for my confidence, And I beseech thee if thou hast a goodness Or power yet in thee to confirm thy wishes, Curse me to earth, for what should I do here Like a decaying flower, still withering Under his bitter words, whose kindly heat Should give my poor heart life? No, curse me, _Julio_, Thou canst not do me such a benefit As that, and well done, that the Heav'ns may hear it.
_Jul._ O fair tears! were you but as chast as subtil, Like Bones of Saints, you would work miracles; What were these women to a man that knew not The thousand, thousand ways of their deceiving? What riches had he found? O he would think Himself still dreaming of a blessedness, That like continual spring should flourish ever. For if she were as good as she is seeming, Or, like an Eagle, could renew her vertues, Nature had made another world of sweetness. Be not so griev'd, sweet Mistriss, what I said, You do, or should know, was but passion; Pray wipe your eyes and kiss me; take these trifles, And wear them for me, which are only rich When you will put them on: indeed I love ye, Beshrew my sick heart, if I grieve not for ye.
_Lel._ Will you dissemble still? I am a fool, And you may easily rule me, if you flatter, The sin will be your own.