Oft painted vessayles bringe in poysond cates,
And the blackest serpents weare the goldenst scales;
And woman, made mans helper at the fyrst,
Dothe oft proove his destroyer.
_Raphael_. Saye perhapps
Some frend of yours miscarried in his choyse,
Will you condeme all women for that one?
Bycause we reade one _Lais_ was unchast,
Are all Corinthian Ladyes cortesans?
Shall I, bycause my neighbours house was burnt,
Condeme the necessary use of fyre?
One surfeitts, and shall I refuse to eate?
That marchant man by shipwreck lost his goodds;
Shall I, bycause hee perisht in the sea,
Abiure the gainfull trade of merchandyse,
Despoyle my shipps, and unbecom [?] the deepes
Of theire fayre Sayles and tackles?
_Treadway_. Not so, frend.[47]
Althoughe her person may perhapps content,
Consider but the place.
_Raphael_. I knwe it badd,
Nay woorst of Ills.
_Treadway_. A howse of prostitution
And common brothellrie.
_Raphael_. Which coold not stand
But that her vertue guards it and protects it
From blastinges and heavens thunders. There shee lyves
Lyke to a ritche and pretious Jewell lost,
Fownd shyninge on a doonge-hill, yet the gemme
No wyse disparadged of his former worthe
Nor bated of his glory; out of this fyre
Of lust and black temptation sheis [_sic_] returned
Lyke gold repur'd and tryde.
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