To your own bents dispose you; You’ll be found,
Be you beneath the sky.
Go to, go to!
Inch-thick, knee-deep, o’er head and ears a fork’d one!
Go play, boy, play. Thy mother plays, and I
Play too, but so disgrac’d a part, whose issue
Will hiss me to my grave: contempt and clamor
Will be my knell. Go play, boy, play. There have been
(Or I am much deceiv’d) cuckolds ere now,
And many a man there is (even at this present,
Now, while I speak this) holds his wife by th’ arm,
That little thinks she has been sluic’d in ’s absence,
And his pond fish’d by his next neighbor—by
Sir Smile, his neighbor. Nay, there’s comfort in’t,
Whiles other men have gates, and those gates open’d,
As mine, against their will. Should all despair
That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind
Would hang themselves. Physic for’t there’s none.
It is a bawdy planet, that will strike
Where ’tis predominant; and ’tis pow’rful—think it—
From east, west, north, and south. Be it concluded,
No barricado for a belly. Know’t,
It will let in and out the enemy,
With bag and baggage. Many thousand on ’s
Have the disease, and feel’t not. How now, boy?