SECOND GENTLEWOMAN

Pity, alack pretty heart, thou art sorry to see any good thing fallen to the ground: pity? no more pity, then to see and Innocent Maidenhead delivered up to the ruffling of her new-wedded husband. Beauty is made for use, and he that will not use a sweet soul well, when she is under his fingers I pray Venus he may never kiss a fair and a delicate, soft, red' plump-lip. Pity? come fool fling them about lustily; flowers ne ver die a sweeter death, than when they are smothered to death in a Lovers bosom, or else pave the high ways, over which these pretty, simpering, jetting things, called brides, must trip. One reason is, because 'tis—o a most sweet thing to lie with a man. I warrant all men are of thy mind: another reason is, because they stick Like the scutcheons of madame chasti ty, on the sable ground, weeping in their stalks, and wink king with their yellow-sunk eyes, as loath to behold the lamentable fallen of a Maidenhead: what senseless thing in all the house, that is not now as melancholy, as a new setup Schoolmaster? Troth I think thou mournest, because th'ast missed thy turn, I do by the quiver of Cupid: you see the torches melt themselves away in tears: the instruments wear their heart strings out for sorrow: and the Silver Ewers weep most pitiful Rosewater: five or six pair of the white innocent wedding gloves, did in my sighed choose rather to be torn in pieces than to be drawn on; and look this Rosemary, (a fatal herb) this dead-mans nosegay, has crept in amongst these flowers to deck th'nuisible coarse of the Brides May denhead, when (o how much do we poor wenches suffer) a bout eleven or twelve, or one a clock at midnight at furthest, it descends to purgatory, to give notice that Caelestine (heigh ho) will never come to led Apes in hell. If I had as many Maidenheads, as I have hairs on my head I'de venture them all rather then to come into so hight a place; prithee strew thou, for my little arms are weary. No faith that's Like a woman bitten w to fleas, it neuerlyes still: you vpont, what a miserable thing 'tis to be a noble Bride, there's such delays in rising, in fitting gowns, in tiring, in pinning Rebates, in poking, in dinner, in supper, in Revels, & last of all in cursing the poor nodding fiddlers, for keeping Mistress Bride so long up from sweeter Revels; that, o I could never endure to put it up without much bickering. Is she up? nay then I see she has been down: Lord would mercy on us, we women fallen and fallen still, and when we have husbands we play upon them Like Virginal Jacks, they must rise and fallen to our humours, or else they'll never get any good strains of music out of us; but come now, have at it for a maidenhead. When we come to your years, we shall learn what honesty is, come pewfellow.