Tho_.  Had I knowne
Your passion would have vanquishd reason thus,
You should have met your ruine unadvisd;
Hugd your destruction; taken what the lust
Of other men had left you.  But the name
And soule of friendship twixt us I had thought
Would have retain’d this most unmanly rage
Gainst me, for declaration of a truth
By which you might be ransomed from the armes
Of her adulterate honor.

Bon.  Yes, kind foole;
Perswade an Indian who has newly div’d
Into the ocean and obtaind a pearle,
To cast it back againe; labour t’induce
Turkes to contemne their Alcoron ere you strive
To make me creditt my Belissia false. [Kneele. 
Forgive me, holy love, that I delay
So long to scourge the more than heathnish wrongs
Of this iniurious villaine, whome me thinks—­
Blow him hence to hell
With his contagious slander! yet before
Thou doest fall by me as, if heaven have not
Lost all its care of Innocence, thou must doe,
Tell me what Divell urgd thee to detract
From virtue thus, for of thy selfe thou couldst not
(Unlesse with thee shee hath bin vicious) know it
Without some information:  whoes the Author
Of this prodigious calumnie?

Tho.  Her mother.

Bon.  Ha! her mother?

Tho.  Yes, she; that certaine Oracle of truth,
That pretious mine of honor, which before
She would exhaust, or yeild your innocence
A spoyle to vice, chose rather to declare
Her daughter’s folly; and with powerfull teares
Besought me, by the love I bore to goodnes,
Which in her estimation had a roome
Higher than Nature, to reveale it to you
And disingage you from her.

Bon.  Soe, rest there, [Put up. 
Ere thou beest drawne were the whole sex reduced
To one, left only to preserve earths store,
In the defence of women; who,[67] but that
The mothers virtues stands betweene heavens Justice
Would for the daughters unexampled sinne
Be by some soddaine Judgment swept from earth
As creatures too infectious.  Gentle freind,
An humor, heavy as my soule was steep’d
In Lethe, seases on me and I feare
My passion will inforce me to transgresse
Manhood; I would not have thee see me weepe;
I prethee leave mee, solitude will suite
Best with my anguish. [Sitt downe.

Tho_.  Your good Genius keepe you. [Exit.

    [Enter Belisea.]

Bel.  Why have you staid thus long? 
Young Crackby and his friend are newly up
And have bin with us.  My sister has had
The modest bout with them:  ’tis such a wench. 
Are you a sleepe? why doe you not looke up? 
What muse you on?

Bon.  Faith, I was thinking where In the whole world to find an honest woman.

Bel.  An excellent meditation!  What doe you take me for, my Mother and my Sister?