Siege, The: Or, Love's Convert, A Tragi-Comedy - Act 4. Scene 6


Pyle, Philostratus.

Pyl . No, no, I sent your Plot; it is my Wealth
You aim at, not my Person. You've a mind
To join your self to twenty thousand Crowns.
Phi . Would — —
Pyl . — — Now you'l wish I know, you ne'r might wear
Foul Linnen more, never be lowzy agen,
Nor iy Perdue with the fat Sutlers Wife,
In the provoking Vertue of dead horse,
Your dear delights, and rare Camp Pleasures.
Phi . Widdow,
Would I might ne'r shed drop of bloud more, if
My Love hath any of these Vulgar Aimes.
Pyl . Next, you conceive I am so old and dry,
That Wenches troubled with Green Sicknesses
May long for Morsels of me, as they do
For bits of Mortar-wals and Cinders, whom
(To keep my body whole) in pity you
Will cure some other way: then passe from them
Into the Suburbs to seek out more Patients,
And by most provident Sin husband my Monyes,
Which now you gape for, in that way of Trade,
Which, when all fails, y' are sure will leave you that
That will intitle y' to th' King's Letters Patents,
As being maim'd in th' service of your Country.
Phil . To swear I were a Maid at these years now,
Would make you think I meant to keep so still.
By those our two Virginities we have lost,
And these two more, which we are yet to lose,
I am so far enamour'd on you, that
I think your wrinckles Beauty, count your Cough
Good Musick, and if e'r you come unto
A Palsey, will maintain it is a Motion
More pleasing to me than a Dance. More yet,
Should you but spit a Tooth, I'd kisse you for't,
Untill you did spit more.
Pyl . I understand you — —
I am as God hath made me.
Phil . Half the City
Cann't say so much fair Lady: Do you think
It is your Wealth I aime at? Pray y' when heard you
Of any Souldier that would come so nigh
To commit with Gold, or fornicate with Silver,
As to intrust all Night a piece of either
In his incontinent Pockets? Not love you?
Command me any danger, if it be
Within the reach of Man, I'l compasse it.
Pyl . Were it not that I should be said to task
Impossibilities, I'd bid you love me.
But being you ask a tryall of your heart,
Do what's contain'd but in this Paper only,
And as I live next Morn I'l marry you.
Phi . No more? I'd thought you would have bid me pull
The Parthian King by th' Beard, or draw an Eye-tooth
From the Jaw Royall of the Persian Monarch.
You've thrown away your self too cheaply: were't
The killing of my Father, 'twere a Toy,
A silly trifle — —
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