MRS ART.  Sir, sir!  I understand you well enough: 
Admit, my husband doth frequent that house
Of such dishonest usage; I suppose
He doth it but in zeal to bring them home
By his good counsel from that course of sin;
And, like a Christian, seeing them astray
In the broad path that to damnation leads,
He useth thither to direct their feet
Into the narrow way that guides to heaven.

ANS.  Was ever woman gull’d so palpably! [Aside.]
But, Mistress Arthur, think you as you say?

MRS ART.  Sir, what I think, I think, and what I say,
I would I could enjoin you to believe.

ANS.  Faith, Mistress Arthur, I am sorry for you: 
And, in good sooth, I wish it lay in me
To remedy the least part of these wrongs
Your unkind husband daily proffers you.

MRS ART.  You are deceived, he is not unkind: 
Although he bear an outward face of hate,
His heart and soul are both assured mine.

ANS.  Fie, Mistress Arthur! take a better spirit;
Be not so timorous to rehearse your wrongs: 
I say, your husband haunts bad company,
Swaggerers, cheaters, wanton courtesans;
There he defiles his body, stains his soul,
Consumes his wealth, undoes himself and you
In danger of diseases, whose vile names
Are not for any honest mouths to speak,
Nor any chaste ears to receive and hear. 
O, he will bring that face, admir’d for beauty,
To be more loathed than a lep’rous skin! 
Divorce yourself, now whilst the clouds grow black;
Prepare yourself a shelter for the storm;
Abandon his most loathed fellowship: 
You are young, mistress; will you lose your youth?

MRS ART.  Tempt no more, devil! thy deformity
Hath chang’d itself into an angel’s shape,
But yet I know thee by thy course of speech: 
Thou gett’st an apple to betray poor Eve,
Whose outside bears a show of pleasant fruit;
But the vile branch, on which this apple grew,
Was that which drew poor Eve from paradise. 
Thy Syren’s song could make me drown myself,
But I am tied unto the mast of truth. 
Admit, my husband be inclin’d to vice,
My virtues may in time recall him home;
But, if we both should desp’rate run to sin,
We should abide certain destruction. 
But he’s like one, that over a sweet face
Puts a deformed vizard; for his soul
Is free from any such intents of ill: 
Only to try my patience he puts on
An ugly shape of black intemperance;
Therefore, this blot of shame which he now wears,
I with my prayers will purge, wash with my tears.
          
                                [Exit.

ANS.  Fuller!

FUL.  Anselm!

ANS.  How lik’st thou this?

FUL.  As school-boys jerks, apes whips, as lions cocks,
As Furies do fasting-days, and devils crosses,
As maids to have their marriage-days put off;
I like it as the thing I most do loathe. 
What wilt thou do? for shame, persist no more
In this extremity of frivolous love. 
I see, my doctrine moves no precise ears,
But such as are profess’d inamoratos.