Do we not know, Saladyne, men's tongues are like Mercury's
pipe, that can enchant Argus with an hundred eyes, and their words as
prejudicial as the charms of Circes, that transform men into monsters.
If such Sirens sing, we poor women had need stop our ears, lest in
hearing we prove so foolish hardy as to believe them, and so perish in
trusting much and suspecting little. Saladyne, _piscator ictus sapit_,
he that hath been once poisoned and afterwards fears not to bowse[1]
of every potion, is worthy to suffer double penance. Give me leave
then to mistrust, though I do not condemn. Saladyne is now in love
with Aliena, he a gentleman of great parentage, she a shepherdess of
mean parents; he honorable and she poor? Can love consist of
contrarieties? Will the falcon perch with the kestrel[2], the lion
harbor with the wolf? Will Venus join robes and rags together, or can
there be a sympathy between a king and a beggar? Then, Saladyne, how
can I believe thee that love should unite our thoughts, when fortune
hath set such a difference between our degrees? But suppose thou
likest Aliena's beauty: men in their fancy resemble the wasp, which
scorns that flower from which she hath fetched her wax; playing like
the inhabitants of the island Tenerifa, who, when they have gathered
the sweet spices, use the trees for fuel; so men, when they have
glutted themselves with the fair of women's faces, hold them for
necessary evils, and wearied with that which they seemed so much to
love, cast away fancy as children do their rattles, and loathing that
which so deeply before they liked; especially such as take love in a
minute and have their eyes attractive, like jet, apt to entertain any
object, are as ready to let it slip again.
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