_Theo._ This shows too angry Nor can it be her fault she is belov'd, If I give meat, must they that eat it surfeit?
_Leoc._ She loves again Sir, there's the mischief of it And in despight of me to drown my blessings Which she shall dearly know.
_Leoc._ She has Devils in her eyes, to whose devotion He offers all his service.
_Theo._ Who can say But she may be forsaken too? he that once wanders From such a perfect sweetness, as you promise Has he not still the same rule to deceive?
_Leoc._ No, no they are together, love together Past all deceipt of that side; sleep together, Live, and delight together, and such deceipt Give me in a wild desert.
_Theo._ By your leave Lady I see no honour in this cunning.
_Leoc._ Honour? True, none of her part, honour, she deserves none, 'Tis ceas'd with wandring Ladies such as she is, So bold and impudent.
_Theo._ I could be angry Extreamly angry now beyond my nature And 'twere not for my pitty: what a man Is this to do these wrongs: believe me Lady I know the maid, and know she is not with him.
_Leoc._ I would you knew she were in heaven.
_Theo._ And so well know her That I think you are cozen'd.
_Theo._ I mean in her behaviour For trust my faith so much I dare adventure for her credit She never yet delighted to do wrong.
_Leoc._ How can she then delight in him? dare she think? Be what she will, as excellent as Angels My love so fond, my wishes so indulgent That I must take her prewnings; sto[o]p at that She has tyr'd upon; No Sir, I hold my beauty Wash but these sorrows from it, of a sparkle As right and rich as hers, my means as equal, My youth as much unblown; and for our worths And weight of virtue--
_Leo._ By heaven she is cork, and clouds, light, light Sir, vapor But I shall find her out, with all her witchcrafts, Her paintings, and her powncings: for 'tis art And only art preserves her, and meer spels That work upon his powers; let her but shew me A ruin'd cheek like mine, that holds his colour And writes but sixteen years in spight of sorrows An unbathed body, smiles, that give but shaddows, And wrinkle not the face; besides she is little, A demy dame, that makes no object.
_Theo._ Nay. Then I must say you err; for credit me I think she is taller than your self.