ime! Pox of Poverty, it makes a Man a Slave, makes Wit and Honour
sneak, my Soul grew lean and rusty for want of Credit.

_Blunt._ 'Sheartlikins, this I like well, it looks like my lucky
Bargain! Oh how I long for the Approach of my Squire, that is to conduct
me to her House again. Why! here's two provided for.

_Fred._ By this light y're happy Men.

_Blunt._ Fortune is pleased to smile on us, Gentlemen,-- to smile on us.

Enter _Sancho_, and pulls _Blunt_ by the Sleeve. They go aside.

_Sancho._ Sir, my Lady expects you-- she has remov'd all that might
oppose your Will and Pleasure-- and is impatient till you come.

_Blunt._ Sir, I'll attend you-- Oh the happiest Rogue! I'll take no
leave, lest they either dog me, or stay me.
[Ex. with _Sancho_.

_Belv._ But then the little Gipsy is forgot?

_Will._ A Mischief on thee for putting her into my thoughts; I had quite
forgot her else, and this Night's Debauch had drunk her quite down.

_Hell._ Had it so, good Captain? [Claps him on the Back.

_Will._ Ha! I hope she did not hear.

_Hell._ What, afraid of such a Champion!

_Will._ Oh! you're a fine Lady of your word, are you not? to make a Man
languish a whole day--

_Hell._ In tedious search of me.

_Will._ Egad, Child, thou'rt in the right, hadst thou seen what a
melancholy Dog I have been ever since I was a Lover, how I have walkt
the Streets like a _Capuchin_, with my Hands in my Sleeves-- Faith,
Sweetheart, thou wouldst pity me.

_Hell._ Now, if I should be hang'd, I can't be angry with him, he
dissembles so heartily-- Alas, good Captain, what pains you have
taken-- Now were I ungrateful not to reward so true a Servant.

_Will._ Poor Soul! that's kindly said, I see thou bearest a Conscience--
come then for a beginning shew me thy dear Face.

_Hell._ I'm afraid, my small Acquaintance, you have been staying that
swinging stomach you boasted of this morning; I remember then my little
Collation would have gone down with you, without the Sauce of a handsom
Face-- Is your Stomach so quesy now?

_Will._ Faith long fasting, Child, spoils a Man's Appetite-- yet if you
durst treat, I could so lay about me still.

_Hell._ And would you fall to, before a Priest says Grace?

_Will._ Oh fie, fie, what an old out-of-fashion'd thing hast thou nam'd?
Thou could'st not dash me more out of Countenance, shouldst thou shew me
an ugly Face.

_Whilst he is seemingly courting _Hellena_, enter _Angelica_,