aper.

_Blunt._ Roses for every Month! what means that?

_Belv._ They are, or wou'd have you think they're Curtezans, who herein
_Naples_ are to be hir'd by the Month.

_Will._ Kind and obliging to inform us-- Pray where do these Roses grow?
I would fain plant some of 'em in a Bed of mine.

_Wom._ Beware such Roses, Sir.

_Will._ A Pox of fear: I'll be bak'd with thee between a pair of Sheets,
and that's thy proper Still, so I might but strow such Roses over me and
under me-- Fair one, wou'd you wou'd give me leave to gather at your
Bush this idle Month, I wou'd go near to make some Body smell of it all
the Year after.

_Belv._ And thou hast need of such a Remedy, for thou stinkest of Tar
and Rope-ends, like a Dock or Pesthouse.

[The Woman puts herself into the Hands of a Man, and _Exit_.

_Will._ Nay, nay, you shall not leave me so.

_Belv._ By all means use no Violence here.

_Will._ Death! just as I was going to be damnably in love, to have her
led off! I could pluck that Rose out-of his Hand, and even kiss the Bed,
the Bush it grew in.

_Fred._ No Friend to Love like a long Voyage at Sea.

_Blunt._ Except a Nunnery, _Fred_.

_Will._ Death! but will they not be kind, quickly be kind? Thou know'st
I'm no tame Sigher, but a rampant Lion of the Forest.

_Two Men drest all over with Horns of several sorts, making Grimaces at
one another, with Papers pinn'd on their Backs, advance from the farther
end of the Scene._

_Belv._ Oh the fantastical Rogues, how they are dress'd! 'tis a Satir
against the whole Sex.

_Will._ Is this a Fruit that grows in this warm Country?

_Belv._ Yes: 'Tis pretty to see these _Italian_ start, swell, and stab
at the Word _Cuckold_, and yet stumble at Horns on every Threshold.

_Will._ See what's on their Back-- _Flowers for every Night._ [Reads.

--Ah Rogue! And more sweet than Roses of ev'ry Month! This is a Gardiner
of _Adam's_ own breeding.
[They dance.

_Belv._ What think you of those grave People?-- is a Wake in _Essex_
half so mad or extravagant?

_Will._ I like their sober grave way, 'tis a kind of legal authoriz'd
Fornication, where the Men are not chid for't, nor the Women despis'd,
as amongst our dull _English_; even the Monsieurs want that part of good
Manners.

_Belv._ But here in _Italy_ a Monsieur is the humblest best-bred
Gentleman-- Duels are so baffled by Bravo's that an age shews not one,
but between a _Frenchman_ and a Hang-man, who is