_Ant_. Yes Madam, to your grief.

_Asp_. Alas! poor Wenches.
Go learn to love first, learn to lose your selves,
Learn to be flattered, and believe, and bless
The double tongue that did it;
Make a Faith out of the miracles of Ancient Lovers.
Did you ne're love yet Wenches? speak _Olympias_,
Such as speak truth and dy'd in't,
And like me believe all faithful, and be miserable;
Thou hast an easie temper, fit for stamp.

_Olymp_. Never.

_Asp_. Nor you _Antiphila_?

_Ant_. Nor I.

_Asp_. Then my good Girles, be more than Women, wise.
At least be more than I was; and be sure you credit any
thing the light gives light to, before a man; rather
believe the Sea weeps for the ruin'd Merchant when he
roars; rather the wind courts but the pregnant sails
when the strong cordage cracks; rather the Sun comes
but to kiss the Fruit in wealthy Autumn, when all falls
blasted; if you needs must love (forc'd by ill fate)
take to your maiden bosoms two dead cold aspicks,
and of them make Lovers, they cannot flatter nor
forswear; one kiss makes a long peace for all; but