t 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 anyt