The second part of the honest whore, with the hvmors of the Patient Man, the Impatient Wife the Honest Whore, perswaded by strong Arguments to turne Curtizan againe : her braue refuting those Arguments. And lastly, the Comicall Passages of an Italian Bridewell, where the Scaene ends |
 | 1. |
 | The second part of the honest whore, with the hvmors of the Patient Man, the Impatient Wife |  |
Enter Bryan.
Hip.
It can be no man else, that Irish Iudas,
Bred in a Country where no venom prospers,
But in the Nations blood hath thus betraid me.
Slaue, get you from your seruice.
Bry.
Faat meanest thou by this now?
Hip.
Question me not, nor tempt my fury, villaine,
Couldst thou turne all the Mountaines in the land,
To hills of gold, and to giue me; here thou stayest not.
Bry.
I faat, I care not.
Hip.
Prate not, but get thee gone, I shall send else.
Bry.
Exit.
Hip.
He's damn'd that rais'd this whirlewind, which hath blowne
Into her eyes this iealousie: yet Ile on,
Ile on, stood armed Deuils staring in my face,
To be pursued in flight, quickens the race,
Shall my blood streames by a wiues lust be bard?
Fond woman, no: Iron growes by strokes more hard,
Lawlesse desires are seas scorning all bounds,
Or sulphure which being ram'd vp, more confounds,
Strugling with mad men, madnes nothing tames,
Winds wrastling with great fires, incense the flames.
Exit.
Hip.
It can be no man else, that Irish Iudas,
Bred in a Country where no venom prospers,
But in the Nations blood hath thus betraid me.
Slaue, get you from your seruice.
Bry.
Faat meanest thou by this now?
Hip.
Question me not, nor tempt my fury, villaine,
Couldst thou turne all the Mountaines in the land,
To hills of gold, and to giue me; here thou stayest not.
Bry.
I faat, I care not.
Hip.
Prate not, but get thee gone, I shall send else.
Bry.
I, doe predy, I had rather haue thee make a scabbard
of my guts, and let out all de Irish puddings in my poore
belly, den to be a false knaue to de I faat, I will neuer see
dyne owne sweet face more. A mawhid deer a gra, fare de well,
fare de well, I wil goe steale Cowes agen in Ireland.
Exit.
Hip.
He's damn'd that rais'd this whirlewind, which hath blowne
Into her eyes this iealousie: yet Ile on,
Ile on, stood armed Deuils staring in my face,
To be pursued in flight, quickens the race,
Shall my blood streames by a wiues lust be bard?
Fond woman, no: Iron growes by strokes more hard,
Lawlesse desires are seas scorning all bounds,
Or sulphure which being ram'd vp, more confounds,
Strugling with mad men, madnes nothing tames,
Winds wrastling with great fires, incense the flames.
Exit.
| The second part of the honest whore, with the hvmors of the Patient Man, the Impatient Wife | |