Per.  Men ever were most blessed, till crass fate
Brought Love and Women forth, unfortunate
To all that ever tasted of their smiles,
Whose actions are all double, full of wiles: 
Like to the subtil Hare, that ’fore the Hounds
Makes many turnings, leaps and many rounds,
This way and that way, to deceive the scent
Of her pursuers.

Amo.  ’Tis but to prevent
Their speedy coming on that seek her fall,
The hands of cruel men, more Bestial,
And of a nature more refusing good
Than Beasts themselves, or Fishes of the Flood.

Per.  Thou art all these, and more than nature meant,
When she created all, frowns, joys, content;
Extream fire for an hour, and presently
Colder than sleepy poyson, or the Sea,
Upon whose face sits a continual frost: 
Your actions ever driven to the most,
Then down again as low, that none can find
The rise or falling of a Womans mind.

Amo.  Can there be any Age, or dayes, or time,
Or tongues of men, guilty so great a crime
As wronging simple Maid?  O Perigot,
Thou that wast yesterday without a blot,
Thou that wast every good, and every thing
That men call blessed; thou that wast the spring
From whence our looser grooms drew all their best;
Thou that wast alwayes just, and alwayes blest
In faith and promise; thou that hadst the name
Of Vertuous given thee, and made good the same
Ev’en from thy Cradle; thou that wast that all
That men delighted in; Oh what a fall
Is this, to have been so, and now to be
The only best in wrong and infamie,
And I to live to know this! and by me
That lov’d thee dearer than mine eyes, or that
Which we esteem’d our honour, Virgin state;
Dearer than Swallows love the early morn,
Or Dogs of Chace the sound of merry Horn;
Dearer than thou canst love thy new Love, if thou hast
Another, and far dearer than the last;
Dearer than thou canst love thy self, though all
The self love were within thee that did fall
With that coy Swain that now is made a flower,
For whose dear sake, Echo weeps many a shower. 
And am I thus rewarded for my flame? 
Lov’d worthily to get a wantons name? 
Come thou forsaken Willow, wind my head,
And noise it to the world my Love is dead: 
I am forsaken, I am cast away. 
And left for every lazy Groom to say,
I was unconstant, light, and sooner lost
Than the quick Clouds we see, or the chill Frost
When the hot Sun beats on it.  Tell me yet,
Canst thou not love again thy Amoret?

Per.  Thou art not worthy of that blessed name,
I must not know thee, fling thy wanton flame
Upon some lighter blood, that may be hot
With words and feigned passions:  Perigot
Was ever yet unstain’d, and shall not now
Stoop to the meltings of a borrowed brow.