_Will._ So is the Pox, good Matron, of which you can afford good Penniworths.
_La Nu._ He charms me even with his angry Looks, and will undo me yet.
_Pet._ Let's leave this Place, I'll tell you my Success as we go.
[Ex. all, some one way, some another, the Forepart of the Church shuts over, except _Will._ _Blunt_, _Aria_, and _Lucia_.
_Will._ She's gone, and all the Plagues of Pride go with her.
_Blunt._ Heartlikins, follow her-- Pox on't, an I'd but as good a Hand at this Game as thou hast, I'll venture upon any Chance--
_Will._ Damn her, come, let's to Dinner. Where's _Fetherfool_?
_Blunt._ Follow'd a good Woodman, who gave him the Sign: he'll lodge the Deer e'er night.
_Will._ Follow'd her-- he durst not, the Fool wants Confidence enough to look on her.
_Blunt._ Oh you know not how a Country Justice may be improved by Travel; the Rogue was hedg'd in at home with the Fear of his Neighbours and the Penal Statutes, now he's broke loose, he runs neighing like a Stone-Horse upon the Common.
_Will._ However, I'll not believe this-- let's follow 'em.
[Ex. _Will._ and _Blunt_.
_Aria._ He is in love, but with a Courtezan-- some Comfort that. We'll after him-- 'Tis a faint-hearted Lover, Who for the first Discouragement gives over.
[Ex. _Ariadne_ and _Lucia_.
ACT II.
SCENE I. _The Street._
Enter _Fetherfool_ and _Sancho_, passing over the Stage; after them _Willmore_ and _Blunt_, follow'd by _Ariadne_ and _Lucia_.
_Will._ 'Tis so, by Heaven, he's chaffering with her Pimp. I'll spare my Curses on him for having her, he has a Plague beyond 'em.
--Harkye, I'll never love, nor lie with Women more, those Slaves to Lust, to Vanity and Interest.
_Blunt._ Ha, Captain! [Shaking his Head and smiling.
_Will._ Come, let's go drink Damnation to 'em all.
_Blunt._ Not all, good Captain.
_Will._ All, for I hate 'em all--
_Aria._ Heavens! if he should indeed! [Aside.
_Blunt._ But, _Robert_, I have found you most inclined to a Damsel when you had a Bottle in your Head.
_Will._ Give me thy Hand, _Ned_-- Curse me, despise me, point me out for Cowardice if e'er thou see'st me court a Woman more: Nay, when thou knowest I ask any of the Sex a civil Question again-- a Plague upon 'em, how they've handled me-- come, let's go drink, I say-- Confusion to the Race-- A Woman!-- no, I will be burnt with my own Fire to Cinders e'er any of the Brood shall lay my Flame--
_Aria._ He cannot be so wicked to keep this Resolution sure-- [She passes by.
Faith, I must be resolv'd-- you've made a pious Resolution, Sir, had you the Grace to keep it-- [Passing on he pauses, and looks on her.
_Will._ Hum-- What's that?
_Blunt._ That-- O-- nothing-- but a Woman-- come away.
_Will._ A Woman! Damn her, what Mischief made her cross my way just on the Point of Reformation!
_Blunt._ I find the Devil will not lose so hopeful a Sinner. Hold, hold, Captain, have you no Regard to your own Soul? 'dsheartlikins, 'tis a Woman, a very errant Woman.
_Aria._ Your Friend informs you right, Sir, I am a Woman.
_Will._ Ay, Child, or I were a lost Man-- therefore, dear lovely Creature--
_Aria._ How can you tell, Sir?
_Will._ Oh, I have naturally a large Faith, Child, and thou'st a promising Form, a tempting Motion, clean Limbs, well drest, and a most damnable inviting Air.
_Aria._ I am not to be sold, nor fond of Praise I merit not.
_Will._ How, not to be sold too! By this light, Child, thou speakest like a Cherubim, I have not heard so obliging a Sound from the Mouth of Woman-kind this many a Day-- I find we must be better acquainted, my Dear.
_Aria._ Your Reason, good familiar Sir, I see no such Necessity.
_Will._ Child, you are mistaken, I am in great Necessity; for first I love thee-- desperately-- have I not damn'd my Soul already for thee, and wouldst thou be so wicked to refuse a little Consolation to my Body?
Then secondly, I see thou art frank and good-natur'd, and wilt do Reason _gratis_.
_Aria._ How prove ye that, good Mr. Philospher?
_Will._ Thou say'st thou'rt not to be sold, and I'm sure thou'rt to be had-- that lovely Body of so divine a Form, those soft smooth Arms and Hands, were made t'embrace as well as be embrac'd; that delicate white rising Bosom to be prest, and all thy other Charms to be enjoy'd.
_Aria._ By one that can esteem 'em to their worth, can set a Value and a Rate upon 'em.
_Will._ Name not those Words, they grate my Ears like Jointure, that dull conjugal Cant that frights the generous Lover. Rate-- Death, let the old Dotards talk of Rates, and pay it t'atone for the Defects of Impotence. Let the sly Statesman, who jilts the Commonwealth with his grave Politicks, pay for the Sin, that he may doat in secret; let the brisk Fool inch out his scanted Sense with a large Purse more eloquent than he: But tell not me of Rates, who bring a Heart, Youth, Vigor, and a Tongue to sing the Praise of every single Pleasure thou shalt give me.
_Aria._ Then if I should be kind, I perceive you would not keep the Secret.
_Will._ Secrecy is a damn'd ungrateful Sin, Child, known only where Religion and Small-beer are current, despis'd where _Apollo_ and the Vine bless the Country: you find none of _Jove's_ Mistresses hid in Roots and Plants, but fixt Stars in Heaven for all to gaze and wonder at-- and tho I am no God, my Dear, I'll do a Mortal's Part, and generously tell the admiring World what hidden Charms thou hast: Come, lead me to some Place of Happiness--
_Blunt._ Prithee, honest Damsel, be not so full of Questions; will a Pistole or two do thee any hurt?
_Luc._ None at all, Sir--
_Blunt._ Thou speak'st like a hearty Wench-- and I believe hast not been one of _Venus'_ Hand-maids so long, but thou understand thy Trade-- In short, fair Damsel, this honest Fellow here who is so termagant upon thy Lady, is my Friend, my particular Friend, and therefore I would have him handsomly, and well-favour'dly abus'd-- you conceive me.
_Luc._ Truly, Sir, a friendly Request-- but in what Nature abus'd?