Act the First
Scene I
Philotis, Syra.
Phi. Now, by my troth, a woman of the town
Scarce ever finds a faithful lover, Syra.
This very Pamphilus, how many times
He swore to Bacchis, swore so solemnly
One could not but believe him, that he never
Would, in her lifetime, marry. See! he’s married.
Syra. I warn you, therefore, and most earnestly
Conjure you, to have pity upon none.
But plunder, fleece, and beggar ev’ry man
That falls into your pow’r.
Phi. What! spare none?
Syra. None.
For know, there is not one of all your sparks
But studies to cajole you with fine speeches,
And have his will as cheaply as he can.
Should not you, then, endeavor to fool them?
Phi. But to treat all alike is wrong.
Syra. What! wrong?
To be reveng’d upon your enemies?
Or to snare those who spread their snares for you?
—Alas! why have not I your youth and beauty,
Or you my sentiments?