DIALOGUE.
107
To th' wise it all things does allow;
And cares not What we do, but How.
Like tapers shut in ancient urns,
Unless it let-in air, for ever shines and burns.
And cares not What we do, but How.
Like tapers shut in ancient urns,
Unless it let-in air, for ever shines and burns.
She. Thou first, perhaps, who didst the fault commit,
Wilt make thy wicked boast of it;
For men, with Roman pride, above
The conquest do the triumph love;
Nor think a perfect victory gain'd,
Unless they through the streets their captive lead enchain'd.
Wilt make thy wicked boast of it;
For men, with Roman pride, above
The conquest do the triumph love;
Nor think a perfect victory gain'd,
Unless they through the streets their captive lead enchain'd.
He. Whoe'er his secret joys has open laid,
The bawd to his own wife is made;
Beside, what boast is left for me,
Whose whole wealth's a gift from thee?
’Tis you the conqueror are, ’tis you
Who have not only ta'en, but bound and gagg'd me too.
The bawd to his own wife is made;
Beside, what boast is left for me,
Whose whole wealth's a gift from thee?
’Tis you the conqueror are, ’tis you
Who have not only ta'en, but bound and gagg'd me too.
She. Though publick punishment we escape, the sin
Will rack and torture us within:
Guilt and sin our bosom bears;
And, though fair yet the fruit appears,
That worm which now the core does waste,
When long 't has gnaw'd within, will break the skin at last.
Will rack and torture us within:
Guilt and sin our bosom bears;
And, though fair yet the fruit appears,
That worm which now the core does waste,
When long 't has gnaw'd within, will break the skin at last.
He. That thirsty drink, that hungry food, I sought,
That wounded balm is all my fault;
That wounded balm is all my fault;
