_Ang._ 'Tis easily said, of what complexion is she?
_Jul._ Make but a curious frame unto thy self As thou wouldst shape an Angel in thy thought; Such as the Poets, when their fancies sweat, Imagine _Juno_ is, or fair ey'd _Pallas_, And one more excellent, than all those figures Shalt thou find her; she's brown, but of a sweetness, (If such a poor word may express her beauty) Believe me _Angelo_, would do more mischief With a forc't smile, than twenty thousand _Cupids_ With their love quivers, full of Ladies eyes, And twice as many flames, could fling upon us.
_Jul._ As a Rose at fairest, Neither a bud, nor blown, but such a one, Were there a _Hercules_ to get again With all his glory, or one more than he, The god would choose out amongst a race of women To make a Mother of: she is outwardly All that bewitches sense; all that entices, Nor is it in our vertue to uncharm it. And when she speaks, oh _Angelo_, then musick (Such as old _Orpheus_ made, that gave a soul To aged mountains, and made rugged beasts Lay by their rages; and tall trees that knew No sound but tempests, to bow down their branches And hear, and wonder; and the Sea, whose surges Shook their white heads in Heaven, to be as mid-night Still, and attentive) steals into our souls So suddenly, and strangely, that we are From that time no more ours, but what she pleases.
_Ang._ Why look, how far you have thrust your self again Into your old disease! are you that man With such a resolution, that would venture To take your leave of folly, and now melt Even in repeating her?
_Jul._ No, the strongest man May have the grudging of an ague on him, This is no more; let's go, I would fain be fit To be thy friend again, for now I am no mans.
_Ang._ Go you, I dare not go, I tell you truly Nor were it wise I should.
_Ang._ I am well, And if I can, will keep my self so.
_Jul._ Ha? thou mak'st me smile, though I have little cause, To see how prettily thy fear becomes thee; Art thou not strong enough to see a woman?
_Ang._ Yes, twenty thousand: but not such a one As you have made her: I'le not lye for th' matter: I know I am frail, and may be cozen'd too By such a Syren.
_Ang._ Faith but I will not; no I know how far Sir I am able to hold out, and will not venture Above my depth: I do not long to have My sleep ta'ne from me, and go pulingly Like a poor wench had lost her market-mony; And when I see good meat, sit still and sigh, And call for small beer; and consume my wit In making _Anagrams_, and faithful posies; I do not like that Itch, I am sure I had rather Have the main pox, and safer.