 | The Treasure |  |
SCENE I.
Enter LYSITELES.What misery to myself do I create,
On many things thus inward ruminating!
I teaze me, fret me, weary out my mind,
Which schools me, as it were, like a strict master.
It is not plain, nor have I weigh'd sufficiently,
What life 'twere best to follow, whether rather
Attend to thrift, or yield me up to Love.
I cannot tell, which is most pleasurable,
Nor am I rightly satisfied.—Suppose
We try both fairly:—in the cause I'll be
Both judge and culprit.—Good! it likes me well,
I'll do so.—First then we'll discourse of Love.—
Love only seeks to draw into his toils
The easy, willing natures; these he courts,
Subtly cajoles, and seeks occasions apt
To win them to him. Love's a gentle flatterer,
An hook that grapples hearts, an errant fibber,
A dainty mouth'd, a nice, a greedy niggard,
A filcher of affections, pimp to those
That play at bo-peep, skulk in hiding holes;
A pryer into secrets,—last, a beggar.
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Will find his substance in a trice decay.
“My sweet, my honey, if you love me, if
“You have the spirit, won't you give me? do now.”
Then instantly the gudgeon—“Eh! I will,
“My eyes, my own dear eyes,—aye, that and more,
“If you require it.”—Thus she strikes the fool,
For more and more still asking. Nor is this
Sufficient; something more must still be added,
For entertainments, feastings and carousings.
Grants she the favour of a night? She brings
Her whole retinue with her, such a train
Of waiting-women, such a tribe of dressers,
Minstrels, and lacqueys, all such huge devourers,
Such wasters of his substance, that the lover
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When I reflect within me, and consider,
How cheap they hold one who is little worth,
Love, get thee gone—I like thee not—Away—
I hold no converse with thee.—Although sweet
His feastings and carousings, Love has yet
A smatch of bitter to create disgust.
Love shuns the noisy bustle of the bar,
Drives off relations, and oft banishes
Himself from his own sight. There's no one, who
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Love should be held a stranger, kept at distance,
Wholly abstain'd from. Hapless, into Love
Who plunges headlong; greater his destruction,
Than to have leapt down toppling from a rock.—
Love, get thee gone then,—I divorce thee from me,
Nor ever be thou friend of mine.—Go, torture
Those that are bound unto thee.—I am bent
Henceforward to apply my mind to thrift,
Although the toil be great. Hence good men gather
Gain, esteem, credit, reputation: This
The price of virtue.—'Tis my choice to herd
With good men rather than the vain and dissolute.
| The Treasure | |