_Gal_. To morrow night; Oh, 'tis an Age in Love! Desire knows no time but the present, 'tis now I wish, and now I wou'd enjoy: a new Day ought to bring a new Desire.
_Pet_. Alas, Sir, I'm but an humble Bravo.
_Gal_. Yes, thou'rt a Pimp, yet want'st the Art to procure a longing Lover the Woman he adores, though but a common Curtezan--Oh, confound her Maiden-head--she understands her Trade too well, to have that badge of Innocence.
_Pet_. I offered her her Price, Sir.
_Gal_. Double it, give any thing, for that's the best receipt I ever found to soften Womens hearts.
_Pet_. Well, Sir, she will be this Evening in the Garden of _Medices Villa_, there you may get an opportunity to advance your Interest--I must step and trim _Mr. Tickletext_, and then am at your service.
[_Exit_ Petro.
_Jul_. What is this Knight and his Governour, who have the blessed Fortune to be manag'd by this Squire?
_Fil_. Certain Fools _Galliard_ makes use of when he has a mind to laugh, and whom I never thought worth a visit since I came to _Rome:_ and he's like to profit much by his Travels, who keeps company with all the _English_, especially the Fops.
_Gal_. Faith, Sir, I came not abroad to return with the formality of a Judge; and these are such antidotes against Melancholy as wou'd make thee fond of fooling.--Our Knight's Father is even the first Gentleman of his House, a Fellow, who having the good fortune to be much a Fool and Knave, had the attendant blessing of getting an Estate of some eight thousand a year, with this Coxcomb to inherit it; who (to aggrandize the Name and Family of the _Buffoons_) was made a Knight; but to refine throughout, and make a compleat Fop, was sent abroad under the Government of one Mr.
_Tickletext_, his zealous Father's Chaplain, as errant a blockhead as a man wou'd wish to hear preach; the Father wisely foreseeing the eminent danger that young Travellers are in of being perverted to Popery.
_Jul_. 'Twas well considered.
_Gal_. But for the young Spark, there is no description can reach him; 'tis only to be done by himself; let it suffice, 'tis a pert, saucy, conceited Animal, whom you shall just now go see and admire, for he lodges in the house with us.
_Jul_. With all my heart, I never long'd more for a new acquaintance.
_Fil_. And in all probability shall sooner desire to be rid on't.-- _Allons_.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE II. _Draws off to a room in_ Tickletext's _lodging, and discovers Mr_. Tickletext _a trimming, his Hair under a Cap, a Cloth before him:_ Petro _snaps his fingers, takes away the Bason, and goes to wiping his face_.
Tickletext _and_ Petro.
_Pet_. Ah che Bella! Bella! I swear by these sparkling Eyes and these soft plump dimpled Cheeks, there's not a Signiora in all _Rome_, cou'd she behold 'em, were able to stand their Temptations; and for _La Silvianetta_, my life on't, she's your own.
_Tick_. Teze, teze, speak softly; but, honest _Barberacho_, do I, do I indeed look plump, and young, and fresh and--hah!
_Pet_. Ay, Sir, as the rosy Morn, young as old Time in his Infancy, and plump as the pale-fac'd Moon.
_Tick_. He--Why, this Travelling must needs improve a Man--Why, how admirably well-spoken your very Barbers are here--[_Aside_.]--But, _Barberacho_, did the young Gentlewoman say she lik'd me? did she, Rogue?
did she?
_Pet_. A doated on you Signior, doated on you.
_Tick_. Why, and that's strange now, in the Autumn of my Age too, when Nature began to be impertinent, as a Man may say, that a young Lady shou'd fall in love with me--[_Aside_.] Why, _Barberacho_, I do not conceive any great matter of Sin only in visiting a Lady that loves a man, hah.
_Pet_. Sin, Sir! 'tis a frequent thing now-a-days in Persons of your Complexion.
_Tick_. Especially here at _Rome_ too, where 'tis no scandal.
_Pet_. Ah, Signior, where the Ladies are privileg'd and Fornication licensed.
_Tick_. Right! and when 'tis licens'd, 'tis lawful; and when 'tis lawful, it can be no Sin: besides, _Barberacho_, I may chance to turn her, who knows?
_Pet_. Turn her, Signior, alas, any way, which way you please.
_Tick_. He, he, he! There thou wert knavish, I doubt--but I mean convert her--nothing else I profess, _Barberacho_.
_Pet_. True, Signior, true, she's a Lady of an easy nature, and an indifferent Argument well handled will do't--ha--here's your head of Hair--here's your natural [_combing out his Hair_.] Frize! And such an Air it gives the Face!--So, Signior--Now you have the utmost my Art can do.
[_Takes away the Cloth, and bows_.
_Tick_. Well, Signior,--and where's your Looking-glass?
_Pet_. My Looking-glass!
_Tick_. Yes, Signior, your Looking-glass! an _English_ Barber wou'd as soon have forgotten to have snapt his fingers, made his leg, or taken his Money, as have neglected his Looking-glass.
_Pet_. Ay, Signior, in your Country the Laity have so little Honesty, they are not to be trusted with the taking off your Beard unless you see't done:--but here's a Glass, Sir.
[_Gives him the Glass_.
[Tick. _sets himself and smirks in the Glass_, Pet. _standing behind him, making horns and grimaces, which_ Tick. _sees in the Glass, gravely rises, turns towards_ Petro.
_Tick_. Why, how now, _Barberacho_, what monstrous Faces are you making there?
_Pet_. All, my Belly, my Belly, Signior: ah, this Wind-Cholick! this Hypocondriack does so torment me! ah--
_Tick_. Alas, poor Knave; _certo_, I thought thou hadst been somewhat uncivil with me, I profess I did.
_Pet_. Who, I, Sir, uncivil?--I abuse my Patrone!--I that have almost made my self a Pimp to serve you?
_Tick_. Teze, teze, honest _Barberacho!_ no, no, no, all's well, all's well:--but hark ye--you will be discreet and secret in this business now, and above all things conceal the knowledge of this Gentlewoman from Sir _Signal_ and Mr. _Galliard_.
_Pet_. The Rack, Signior, the Rack shall not extort it.
_Tick_. Hold thy Hand--there's somewhat for thee, [_Gives him Money_.]
but shall I, Rogue--shall I see her to night?--
_Pet_. To night, Sir, meet me in the Piazza _D'Hispagnia_, about ten a Clock,--I'll meet you there,--but 'tis fit, Signior--that I should provide a Collation,--'tis the custom here, Sir.--
_Tick_. Well, well, what will it come to?--here's an Angel.--
_Pet_. Why, Sir, 'twill come to--about--for you wou'd do't handsomely-- some twenty Crowns.--
_Tick_. How, man, twenty Crowns!
_Pet_. Ay, Signior, thereabouts.