Quoth she, I like this plainness better
Than false mock-passion, speech, or letter,
Or any feat of qualm or sowning,
But hanging of yourself, or drowning. 
Your only way with me to break 485
Your mind, is breaking of your neck;
For as when merchants break, o’erthrown,
Like nine-pins they strike others down,
So that would break my heart; which done,
My tempting fortune is your own, 490
These are but trifles:  ev’ry lover
Will damn himself over and over,
And greater matters undertake
For a less worthy mistress’ sake: 
Yet th’ are the only ways to prove 495
Th’ unfeign’d realities of love: 
For he that hangs, or beats out’s brains,
The Devil’s in him if he feigns.

Quoth Hudibras, This way’s too rough
For mere experiment and proof:  500
It is no jesting, trivial matter,
To swing t’ th’ air, or douce in Water,
And, like a water-witch, try love;
That’s to destroy, and not to prove;
As if a man should be dissected 505
To find what part is disaffected. 
Your better way is to make over,
In trust, your fortune to your lover. 
Trust is a trial; if it break,
’Tis not so desp’rate as a neck. 510
Beside, th’ experiment’s more certain;
Men venture necks to gain a fortune: 
The soldier does it ev’ry day. 
(Eight to the week) for sixpence pay: 
Your pettifoggers damn their souls, 515
To share with knaves in cheating fools: 
And merchants, vent’ring through the main,
Slight pirates, rocks, and horns, for gain. 
This is the way I advise you to: 
Trust me, and see what I will do. 520

Quoth she, I should be loth to run
Myself all th’ hazard, and you none;
Which must be done, unless some deed
Of your’s aforesaid do precede. 
Give but yourself one gentle swing 525
For trial, and I’ll cut the string: 
Or give that rev’rend head a maul,
Or two, or three, against a wall,
To shew you are a man of mettle,
And I’ll engage myself to settle. 530

Quoth he, My head’s not made of brass,
As Friar Bacon’s noodle was;
Nor (like the Indian’s skull) so tough
That, authors say, ’twas musket-proof,
As yet on any new adventure, 535
As it had need to be, to enter. 
You see what bangs it has endur’d,
That would, before new feats, be cur’d. 
But if that’s all you stand upon,
Here, strike me luck, it shall be done. 540