In the last scene of Philaster, the supposed youth, Bellario, is obliged to confess her sex, and accounts thus for her assumed disguise.

Philaster. But, Bellario,

(For I must call thee still so) tell me why
Thou didst conceal thy sex? It was a fault-
A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds
Of truth outweigh'd it. All these jealousies
Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discover'd
What now we know.

Bell. My father oft would speak

Your worth and virtue; and as I did grow
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst
To see the man so prais'd; but yet all this
Was but a maiden longing, to be lost
As soon as found, till, sitting at my window,
Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god,
I thought, but it was you, enter our gates;
My blood flew out and back again as fast
As I had puff'd it forth, and suck'd it in
Like breath; then was I call'd away in haste
To entertain you: never was a man,
Heav'd from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, rais'd
So high in thoughts as I. You left a kiss
Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep
From you for ever. I did hear you talk
Far above singing! After you were gone,

I grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd
What stirr'd it so. Alas! I found it love,
Yet far from lust; for, could I but have liv'd
In presence of you, I had had
my end.
For this I did delude my noble father
With a feign'd pilgrimage, and dress'd myself
In habit of a boy; and, for I knew

My birth no match for you, I was past hope
Of having you; and understanding well,
That when I made discovery of my sex
I could not stay with you, I made a vow,
By all the most religious things a maid
Could call together, never to be known
Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes,
For other than I seem'd, that I might ever

Abide with you; then sat I by the fount

Where first you took me up.

King. Search out a match

Within our kingdom where and when thou wilt,

And I will pay thy dowry; and thyself

Wilt well deserve him.

Bell. Never, sir, will I

Marry; it is a thing within my vow:

But if I may have leave to serve the princess,

To see the virtues of her lord and her,

I shall have hope to live.

Arethusa. L, Philaster,

Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady,
Dress'd like a page, to serve you; nor will I

Suspect her living here. Come, live with me,.

Live free as I do she that loves my lord,

Curst be the wife that hates her!

THE RECONCILEMENT OF MR. ROGER, THE CURATE, AND ABIGAIL.

FROM THE SCORNFUL LADY, SCENE I. ACT IV.

Abig. SEE how scornfully he passes by me,
With what an equipage canonical,

As though he had broken the heart of Bellarmine,
Or added something to the singing brethren;
*Tis scorn, I know it, and deserve it, Master Roger.
Rog. Fair gentlewoman, my name is Roger.
Abig. Then, gentle Roger-

Rog. Ungentle Abigail

Abig. Why, Master Roger, will you set your wit

To a weak woman's?

Rog. You are weak, indeed;

For so the poet sings.

Abig. I do confess

My weakness, sweet Sir Roger.

Rog. Good, my lady's

Gentlewoman, or my good lady's gentlewoman,
(This trope is lost to you now) leave your prating,
You have a season of your first mother in you,

And, surely, had the devil been in love,
He had been abused too. Go, Dalilah,
You make men fools, and wear fig-breeches.

Abig. Well, well, hard-hearted man, you may

dilate

Upon the weak infirmities of woman,

These are fit texts: but once there was a time-→→→ Would I had never seen those eyes, those eyes, Those orient eyes!

Rog. Ay, they were pearls once with you.

Abig. Saving your presence, sir, so they are still. Rog. Nay, nay, I do beseech you, leave your cogging;

What they are, they are→→

They serve me without spectacles-I thank 'em.
Abig. Oh, will you kill me?

Rog. I do not think I can ;

You're like a copyhold with nine lives in't.

Abig. You were wont to wear a Christian fear about you,

For your own worship's sake.

Do

Rog. I was a Christian fool, then.

you

remember what a dance you led me, How I grew qualm'd in love, and was a dunce; Could not expound but once a quarter, and then

was out too

And then, out of the stir you put me in,

I pray'd for my own royal issue. You do
Remember all this.

Abig. Oh, be as then you were.
Rog. I thank you for it.

Surely I will be wiser, Abigail,
And, as the Ethnic poet sings,

I will not lose my oil and labour too.
You're for the worshipful, I take it, Abigail.

Abig. Oh, take it so, and then I am for thee.

Rog. Ilike these symptoms well, and this humbling also,

They are symptoms of contrition, as a father saith. If I should fall into my fit again,

Would you not shake me into a quotidian coxcomb, Would you not use me scurvily again,

And give me possets with purging comfits in them? I tell thee, gentlewoman, thou hast been harder to me Than a long chapter with a pedigree.

Abig. Oh, curate, cure me;

I will love thee better, dearer, longer;
I will do any thing-betray the secrets
Of the main household to thy reformation;
My lady shall look lovingly on thy learning:
And when due time shall point thee for a parson,

I will convert thy eggs to penny custards,
And thy tithe goose shall graze and multiply.
Rog. I am mollified,

As well shall testify this faithful kiss.
But have a great care, Mistress Abigail,
How you depress the spirit any more,

With your rebukes, and mocks, for certainly

The edge of such a folly cuts itself.

Abig. Oh, Sir, you've pierc'd me thorough! Here

I vow

A recantation to those malicious faults

I ever did against you. Never more