SCENE I. _The Long Street._
Enter _Belvile_ and _Frederick_ in Masquing-Habits, and _Willmore_ in his own Clothes, with a Vizard in his Hand.
_Will._ But why thus disguis'd and muzzl'd?
_Belv._ Because whatever Extravagances we commit in these Faces, our own may not be oblig'd to answer 'em.
_Will._ I should have chang'd my Eternal Buff too: but no matter, my little Gipsy wou'd not have found me out then: for if she should change hers, it is impossible I should know her, unless I should hear her prattle-- A Pox on't, I cannot get her out of my Head: Pray Heaven, if ever I do see her again, she prove damnable ugly, that I may fortify my self against her Tongue.
_Belv._ Have a care of Love, for o' my conscience she was not of a Quality to give thee any hopes.
_Will._ Pox on 'em, why do they draw a Man in then? She has play'd with my Heart so, that 'twill never lie still till I have met with some kind Wench, that will play the Game out with me-- Oh for my Arms full of soft, white, kind-- Woman! such as I fancy _Angelica_.
_Belv._ This is her House, if you were but in stock to get admittance; they have not din'd yet; I perceive the Picture is not out.
Enter _Blunt_.
_Will._ I long to see the Shadow of the fair Substance, a Man may gaze on that for nothing.
_Blunt._ Colonel, thy Hand-- and thine, _Fred_. I have been an Ass, a deluded Fool, a very Coxcomb from my Birth till this Hour, and heartily repent my little Faith.
_Belv._ What the Devil's the matter with thee _Ned_?
_Blunt._ Oh such a Mistress, _Fred_, such a Girl!
_Will._ Ha! where?
_Fred._ Ay where!
_Blunt._ So fond, so amorous, so toying and fine! and all for sheer Love, ye Rogue! Oh how she lookt and kiss'd! and sooth'd my Heart from my Bosom. I cannot think I was awake, and yet methinks I see and feel her Charms still-- _Fred._-- Try if she have not left the Taste of her balmy Kisses upon my Lips-- [Kisses him.
_Belv._ Ha, ha, ha!
_Will._ Death Man, where is she?
_Blunt._ What a Dog was I to stay in dull _England_ so long-- How have I laught at the Colonel when he sigh'd for Love! but now the little Archer has reveng'd him, and by his own Dart, I can guess at all his Joys, which then I took for Fancies, mere Dreams and Fables-- Well, I'm resolved to sell all in _Essex_, and plant here for ever.
_Belv._ What a Blessing 'tis, thou hast a Mistress thou dar'st boast of; for I know thy Humour is rather to have a proclaim'd Clap, than a secret Amour.
_Will._ Dost know her Name?
_Blunt._ Her Name? No,'sheartlikins: what care I for Names?--
She's fair, young, brisk and kind, even to ravishment: and what a Pox care I for knowing her by another Title?
_Will._ Didst give her anything?
_Blunt._ Give her!-- Ha, ha, ha! why, she's a Person of Quality-- That's a good one, give her! 'sheartlikins dost think such Creatures are to be bought? Or are we provided for such a Purchase? Give her, quoth ye? Why she presented me with this Bracelet, for the Toy of a Diamond I us'd to wear: No, Gentlemen, _Ned Blunt_ is not every Body-- She expects me again to night.
_Will._ Egad that's well; we'll all go.
_Blunt._ Not a Soul: No, Gentlemen, you are Wits; I am a dull Country Rogue, I.
_Fred._ Well, Sir, for all your Person of Quality, I shall be very glad to understand your Purse be secure; 'tis our whole Estate at present, which we are loth to hazard in one Bottom: come, Sir, unload.
_Blunt._ Take the necessary Trifle, useless now to me, that am belov'd by such a Gentlewoman-- 'sheartlikins Money! Here take mine too.
_Fred._ No, keep that to be cozen'd, that we may laugh.
_Will._ Cozen'd!-- Death! wou'd I cou'd meet with one, that wou'd cozen me of all the Love I cou'd spare to night.
_Fred._ Pox 'tis some common Whore upon my Life.
_Blunt._ A Whore! yes with such Clothes! such Jewels! such a House! such Furniture, and so attended! a Whore!
_Belv._ Why yes, Sir, they are Whores, tho they'll neither entertain you with Drinking, Swearing, or Baudy; are Whores in all those gay Clothes, and right Jewels; are Whores with great Houses richly furnisht with Velvet Beds, Store of Plate, handsome Attendance, and fine Coaches, are Whores and errant ones.
_Will._ Pox on't, where do these fine Whores live?
_Belv._ Where no Rogue in Office yclep'd Constables dare give 'em laws, nor the Wine-inspired Bullies of the Town break their Windows; yet they are Whores, tho this _Essex_ Calf believe them Persons of Quality.
_Blunt._ 'Sheartlikins, y'are all Fools, there are things about this _Essex_ Calf, that shall take with the Ladies, beyond all your Wits and Parts-- This Shape and Size, Gentlemen, are not to be despis'd; my Waste tolerably long, with other inviting Signs, that shall be nameless.
_Will._ Egad I believe he may have met with some Person of Quality that may be kind to him.
_Belv._ Dost thou perceive any such tempting things about him, should make a fine Woman, and of Quality, pick him out from all Mankind, to throw away her Youth and Beauty upon, nay, and her dear Heart too?-- no, no, _Angelica_ has rais'd the Price too high.
_Will._ May she languish for Mankind till she die, and be damn'd for that one Sin alone.
Enter two Bravoes, and hang up a great Picture of _Angelica's_, against the Balcony, and two little ones at each side of the Door.
_Belv._ See there the fair Sign to the Inn, where a Man may lodge that's Fool enough to give her Price.
[_Will._ gazes on the Picture.
_Blunt._ 'Sheartlikins, Gentlemen, what's this?
_Belv._ A famous Curtezan that's to be sold.
_Blunt._ How! to be sold! nay then I have nothing to say to her-- sold!
what Impudence is practis'd in this Country?-- With Order and Decency Whoring's established here by virtue of the Inquisition-- Come let's be gone, I'm sure we're no Chapmen for this Commodity.
_Fred._ Thou art none, I'm sure, unless thou could'st have her in thy Bed at the Price of a Coach in the Street.
_Will._ How wondrous fair she is-- a Thousand Crowns a Month-- by Heaven as many Kingdoms were too little. A plague of this Poverty-- of which I ne'er complain, but when it hinders my Approach to Beauty, which Virtue ne'er could purchase.
[Turns from the Picture.
_Blunt._ What's this?-- [Reads] _A Thousand Crowns a Month!_ --'Sheartlikins, here's a Sum! sure 'tis a mistake.