&plquo;Post.
&plquo;Is there no way for men to be, but women
&plquo;Must be half-workers? we are bastards all;
&plquo;And that most venerable man, which I
&plquo;Did call my father, was I know not where,
&plquo;When I was stampt. Some coyner with his tools
&plquo;Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seem'd
&plquo;The Dian of that time; so doth my wife
&plquo;The non-pareil of this—Oh vengeance, vengeance!
&plquo;Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain'd,
&plquo;And pray'd me, oft, forbearance; did it with

&plquo;A pudency so rosie, the sweet view on't
&plquo;Might well have warm'd old Saturn—that I thought her
&plquo;As chaste, as unsunn'd snow. Oh, all the Devils!
&plquo;This yellow Iachimo in an hour—was't not?—
&plquo;Or less: at first? perchance, he spoke not, but
&plquo;Like a full-acorn'd Boar, a churning on,
&plquo;Cry'd oh! and mounted; found no opposition
&plquo;From what he look'd for should oppose, and she
&plquo;Should from encounter guard. Could I find out
&plquo;The woman's part in me—for there's no motion
&plquo;That tends to vice in man, but, I affirm,
&plquo;It is the woman's part; be't lying, note it,
&plquo;The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers;
&plquo;Lust, and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers;
&plquo;Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain,
&plquo;Nice longings, slanders, mutability:
&plquo;All faults that may be nam'd, nay, that hell knows,
&plquo;Why, hers, in part, or all; but rather all.—For even to vice
&plquo;They are not constant, but are changing still;
&plquo;One vice, but of a minute old, for one
&plquo;Not half so old as that. I'll write against them,
&plquo;Detest them, curse them—yet 'tis greater skill,
&plquo;In a true hate to pray, they have their Will;
&plquo;The very Devils cannot plague them better.&prquo; [Exit.

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