John Of Salisbury monologue (Act 4) — Becket and other plays

More gain than loss; for of your wives you shall Find one a slut whose fairest linen seems Foul as her dust-cloth, if she used it--one So charged with tongue, that every thread of thought Is broken ere it joins--a shrew to boot, Whose evil song far on into the night Thrills to the topmost tile--no hope but death; One slow, fat, white, a burthen of the hearth; And one that being thwarted ever swoons And weeps herself into the place of power; And one an _uxor pauperis Ibyci_. So rare the household honey-making bee, Man's help! but we, we have the Blessed Virgin For worship, and our Mother Church for bride; And all the souls we saved and father'd here Will greet us as our babes in Paradise. What noise was that? she told us of arm'd men Here in the city. Will you not withdraw?