Act 3 — ACT III., SCENE 1.

Sub. She's a rare wife, believe it, sir: were all such, We never should have false inheritors. Hus. Pish! friend, there is no woman in the world Can hold out in the end, if youth, shape, wit, Met in one subject, do assault her aptly; For failing once, you must not faint, but try Another way: the paths of women's minds Are crooked and diverse; they have byways To lead you to the palace of their pleasures, And you must woo discreetly. First, observe The disposition of her you attempt: If she be spriteful and heroical, Possess her that you are valiant, and have spirit: Talk nothing but of beating every man, That is your hinderance; though you do not do it, Or dare not, 'tis no matter. Be she free And of a liberal soul, give bounteously To all the servants; let your angels fly About the room, although you borrow'd 'em. If she be witty, so must your discourse: Get wit, what shift soe'er you make for it, Though't cost you all your land; and then a song Or two is not amiss, although you buy 'em: There's many in the town will furnish you. Sub. But still, I tell you, you must use her roughly. Beat her face black and blue, take all her clothes, And give them to some punk: this will be ground For me to work upon. Hus. All this I have done. I have left her now as bare that, should I die, Her fortune, o' my conscience, would be To marry some tobacco-man: she has nothing But an old black-work waistcoat, which would serve Exceeding well to sit i' th' shop, and light Pipes for the lousy footmen. And, sweet friend, First here's a jewel to present her; then, Here is a sonnet writ against myself, Which as thine own thou shalt accost her with. Farewell, and happy success attend thee! [Exit. Sub. Ha, ha, ha! [He reads. "Fairest, still wilt thou be true To man so false to thee? Did he lend a husband's due, Thou didst owe him loyalty; But will curses, wanton[97] blows Breed no change in thy white soul? Be not a fool to thy first vows, Since his first breach doth thy faith control. No beauty else could be so chaste; Think not thou honour'st woman then, Since by thy conscience all disgrac'd Are robb'd of the dear loves of men. "Then grant me my desire, that vow to prove A real husband, his adulterate love." Took ever man more pains to be a cuckold! O monstrous age, where men themselves, we see, Study and pay for their own infamy.