_Gal_. How now! what's the cold fit coming on? [_Pauses_.
_Fil_. I have no power to go--where this--invites me-- By which I prove 'tis no encrease of Flame that warms my Heart, But a new Fire just kindled from those Eyes-- Whose Rays I find more piercing than _Marcella's_.
_Gal_.--Ay, Gad, a thousand times--prithee, what's the matter?
_Mar_. Oh, this false-souled Man--wou'd I had leisure To be reveng'd for this Inconstancy! [_Aside_.
_Fil_.--But still she wants that Virtue I admire.
_Gal_. Virtue! 'S'death thou art always fumbling upon that dull string that makes no Musick.--What Letter's that? [_Reads_.] If the first Confession I ever made of Love be grateful to you, come arm'd to night with a Friend or two; and behind the Garden of the Fountains, you will receive--hah, _Marcella!_--Oh, damn it, from your honest Woman!--Well, I see the Devil's never so busy with a Man, as when he has resolv'd upon any Goodness! S'death, what a rub's here in a fair cast,--how is't man?
Alegremente! bear up, defy him and all his Works.
_Fil_. But I have sworn, sworn that I lov'd _Marcella;_ And Honour, Friend, obliges me to go, Take her away and marry her.
--And I conjure thee to assist me too.
_Gal_. What, to night, this might, that I have given to _Silvianetta!_ and you have promis'd to the fair--_Euphemia!_
_Lau_. If he shou'd go, he ruins my design, [_Aside_.
--Nay, if your word, Sir--be already past--
_Fil_. 'Tis true, I gave my promise to _Euphemia;_ but that, to Women of her Trade, is easily absolv'd.
_Gal_. Men keep not Oaths for the sakes of the wise Magistrates to whom they are made, but their own Honour, _Harry_.--And is't not much a greater crime to rob a gallant, hospitable Man of his Niece, who has treated you with Confidence and Friendship, than to keep touch with a well-meaning Whore, my conscientious Friend?
_Lau_. Infinite degrees, Sir.
_Gal_. Besides, thou'st an hour or two good, between this and the time requir'd to meet _Marcella_.
_Lau_. Which an industrious Lover would manage to the best advantage.
_Gal_. That were not given over to Virtue and Constancy; two the best excuses I know for Idleness.
_Fil_.--Yes--I may see this Woman.
_Gal_. Why, Gad-a-mercy, Lad.
_Fil_.--And break my Chains, if possible.
_Gal_. Thou wilt give a good essay to that I'll warrant thee, Before she part with thee; come let's about it.
[_They are going out on either side of_ Fil. _persuading him_.
_Mar_. He's gone, the Curtezan has got the day, [_Aside_.
Vice has the start of Virtue every way; And for one Blessing honest Wives obtain, The happier Mistress does a thousand gain.
I'll home--and practise all their Art to prove, That nothing is so cheaply gain'd as Love.
[_Exit_.
_Gal_. Stay, what Farce is this--prithee let's see a little.
[_Offering to go_.
[_Enter Sir_ Signal, _Mr_. Tickletext, _with his Cloke ty'd about him, a great Inkhorn ty'd at his Girdle and a great folio under his Arm_, Petro _drest like an Antiquary_.
--How now, Mr. _Tickletext_, what, drest as if you were going a Pilgrimage to _Jerusalem?_
_Tick_. I make no such profane Journeys, Sir.
_Gal_. But where have you been, Mr. _Tickletext?_
Sir _Sig_. Why, Sir, this most Reverend and Renowned Antiquary has been showing us Monumental Rarities and Antiquities.
_Gal_. 'Tis _Petro_, that Rogue.
_Fil_. But what Folio have you gotten there, Sir, _Knox_, or _Cartwright?_
_Pet_. Nay, if he be got into that heap of Nonsense, I'll steal off and undress. [_Aside_.]
[_Ex_. Petro.
[Tick, _opening the Book_.
_Tick_. A small Volume, Sir, into which I transcribe the most memorable and remarkable Transactions of the Day.
_Lau_. That doubtless must be worth seeing.
_Fil_. [_Reads_.]--April the twentieth, arose a very great Storm of Wind, Thunder, Lightning and Rain,--which was a shrewd sign of foul Weather.
The 22th 9 of our 12 Chickens getting loose, flew overboard, the other three miraculously escaping, by being eaten by me that Morning for Breakfast.
Sir _Sig_. Harkye, _Galliard_--thou art my Friend, and 'tis not like a Man of Honour to conceal any thing from one's Friend,--know then I am The most fortunate Rascal that ever broke bread,--I am this night to visit, Sirrah,--the finest, the most delicious young Harlot, Mum--under the Rose--in all _Rome_, of _Barberacho's_ acquaintance.
_Gal_.--Hah--my Woman, on my Life! and will she be kind?
Sir _Sig_. Kind! hang Kindness, Man, I'm resolv'd upon Conquest by Parly or by Force.
_Gal_. Spoke like a Roman of the first Race, when noble Rapes, not whining Courtship, did the Lover's business.
Sir _Sig_. 'Sha, Rapes, Man! I mean by force of Money, pure dint of Gold, faith and troth: for I have given 500 Crowns entrance already, _& Par Dins Bacchus, 'tis tropo Caro--tropo Caro_, Mr. _Galliard_.
_Gal_. And what's this high-priz'd Lady's Name, Sir?
Sir _Sig_. _La Silvianetta_,--and lodges on the _Corso_, not far from St.
James's of the Incurables--very well situated in case of disaster--hah.
_Gal_. Very well,--and did not your wise Worship know this _Silvianetta_ was my Mistress?
Sir _Sig_. How! his Mistress! what a damn'd Noddy was I to name her!
[_Aside_.
_Gal_. D'ye hear, fool! renounce me this Woman instantly, or I'll first discover it to your Governour, and then cut your throat, Sir.
Sir _Sig_. Oh, _Doux Ment_--dear _Galliard_--Renounce her,--_Corpo de mi_, that I will soul and body, if she belong to thee, Man.--