Brach. We are happy above thought, because 'bove merit.


Flam. 'Bove merit! we may now talk freely: 'bove merit! what is 't you
doubt? her coyness! that 's but the superficies of lust most women have;
yet why should ladies blush to hear that named, which they do not fear
to handle? Oh, they are politic; they know our desire is increased by
the difficulty of enjoying; whereas satiety is a blunt, weary, and
drowsy passion. If the buttery-hatch at court stood continually open,
there would be nothing so passionate crowding, nor hot suit after the
beverage.


Brach. Oh, but her jealous husband----


Flam. Hang him; a gilder that hath his brains perished with quicksilver
is not more cold in the liver. The great barriers moulted not more
feathers, than he hath shed hairs, by the confession of his doctor. An
Irish gamester that will play himself naked, and then wage all
downward, at hazard, is not more venturous. So unable to please a
woman, that, like a Dutch doublet, all his back is shrunk into his
breaches.
Shroud you within this closet, good my lord;
Some trick now must be thought on to divide
My brother-in-law from his fair bed-fellow.


Brach. Oh, should she fail to come----