University of Virginia Library

Scena I.

Flowrdew, Bird, Roscius.
Bird.
My indignation boileth like a pot,
An over-heated pot, still, still it boyleth,
It boyleth and it bubleth with disdaine.

Flow.
My Spirit within me too fumeth, I say
Fumeth, and steemeth up, and runneth ore
With holy wrath, at these delights of flesh.

Rosc.

The Actours beg your silence—The next vertue,
whose extreames we would present, wants a name both in
the Greeke and Latine,

Bird.
Wants it a name? 'tis an unchristian vertue.

Rosc.

But they describe it such a modesty as directs us in
the pursuit, and refusall of the meaner honours, and so answers
to Magnanimity, as Liberality to Magnificence:
But here, that humor of the persons, being already forestall'd,
and no Pride now so much practis'd, or countenanc'd
as that of Apparell, let me present you Philotimia,
an overcurious Lady too neat in her attire, and for Aphilotimus,
Luparius a nasty sordid sloven.

Flowr.
Pride is a vanity worthy the correction.

Philotimia. Luparus. Colax.
Phil.
What mole drest me to day? O patience!
Who would be troubled with these mop-eyd Chambermaids?
Ther's a whole haire on this side more then t'other,
I am no Lady else!—come on you sloven!
Was ever Christian Madam so tormented
To wed a swine as I am? make you ready.

Lupa.
I would the Tailor had bin hang'd for mee
That first invented cloathes—O nature, nature!
More cruell unto man then all thy creatures!
Calves come into the world with dublets on;
And Oxen have no breeches to put off.
The Lambe is borne with her Freeze-coat about her;
Hoggs goe to bed in rest, and are not troubled
With pulling on their hose and shoos i'th'morning,
With gartring, girdling, trussing, buttoning,
And a thousand torments that afflict humanity.

Phil.
To see her negligence! shee hath made this cheek
By much too pale, and hath forgot to whiten
The naturall rednesse of my nose, she knowes not
What 'tis wants dealbation! O fine memory!
If she has not set me in the selfe same teeth
That I wore yesterday, I am a jew.
Does she think that I can eate twice with the same,
Or that my mouth stands as the Vulgar does?
What? are you snorting there? youle rise, you sluggard
And make you ready?

Lupa.
Rise, and make you ready?
Two workes of that, your happy birds make one;
They when they rise are ready. Blessed birds!
They fortunate creatures sleepe in their own clothes,
And rise with all their feather beds about them:
Would nakednesse were come again in fashion;
I had some hope then when the brests went bare
Their bodies too would have come to 't in time.

Phil.
Beshrew her for't, this wrinkle is not fill'd!
Youll goe and wash—you are a pretty husband?

Lupa.
Our Sow ne're washes, yet she has a face
Me thinks as cleanly, Madam, as yours is,
If you durst weare your own.

Col:
Madame Superbia;
You'are studying the Ladies library,
The Looking-glasse; 'tis well! so great a beauty
Must have her ornaments—Nature adornes
The Peacocks taile with starres; 'tis shee attires
The Bird of Paradise in all her plumes;
She decks the fields with various flowres; 'tis shee
Spangled the Heavens with all those glorious lights;
She spotted th'Ermine's skin; and arm'd the fish
In silver male: But man she sent forth naked
Not that he should remaine so, but that he
Indued with reason should adorne himselfe
With every one of these. The silke-worme is
Only mans spinster, else we might suspect
That she esteem'd the painted Butterfly
Above her master-piece: you are the Image
Of that bright Goddesse: therefore weare the Iewels
Of all the East; let the red sea be ransack'd
To make you glitter, looke on Luparus
Your Husband there, and see how in a sloven
All the best characters of Divinity,
Not yet worne out in man, are lost and buried.

Philo.
I see it to my griefe, pray counsell him.

Col.
This vanity, in your nice Ladies humors
Of being so curious in her toies, and dresses,
Makes me suspitious of her honesty.
These Cobweb-lawnes catch spiders sir, believe it,
You know that clothes doe not commend the man,
But 'tis the living; though this age preferre
A cloake of Plush, before a braine of art.
You understand what misery 'tis to have
No worth but that we owe the draper for;
No doubt you spend the time your Lady looses
In tricking up her body, to cloth the soule.

Lup.
To cloth the soule? must the soule too be cloth'd?
I protest sir, I had rather have no soule
Then be tormented with the clothing of it.

Rosc.

To these enter the extreames of modesty, a neere
kinswoman of the vertues, Anaiskinthia or Impudence, a
bawd; and Kataplectus an over bashfull Scholar: where

our Author hopes the women will pardon him, if of foure
and twenty vices he presents but two (Pride and Impudence)
of their sexe.