! 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?

_Bon_. You alway excepted; tis but melancholly;
Prethee bestow a kisse upon me, love;
Perchance that will expell it.

_Bel_. If your cure be wrought soe easily, pittie you should perish
for want of physick. [_Kiss him_.

_Bon_. She kisses as sheed wont; were she unchast,
Surely her breath would like a _Stigian_ mist
Or some contagious vapor blast me; but
'Tis sweet as _Indian_ balme, and from her lips
Distills[68] a moisture pretious as the Dew
The amorous bounty of the wholesome morne
Throwes on rose buds; her cheeks are fresh and pure
As the chast ayre that circumscribes them, yet
Theres that within her renders her