s too
are worse than the Stocks, with the Sole an Inch shorter than my Foot:
In fine, Gentlemen, methinks I look altogether like a Bag of Bays
stuff'd full of Fools Flesh.

_Belv._ Methinks 'tis well, and makes thee look _en Cavalier:_ Come,
Sir, settle your Face, and salute our Friends, Lady--

_Blunt._ Hah! Say'st thou so, my little Rover? [To _Hell._] Lady--
(if you be one) give me leave to kiss your Hand, and tell you,
adsheartlikins, for all I look so, I am your humble Servant-- A Pox of
my _Spanish_ Habit.

_Will._ Hark-- what's this? [Musick is heard to Play.

Enter _Boy_.

_Boy._ Sir, as the Custom is, the gay People in Masquerade, who make
every Man's House their own, are coming up.

Enter several Men and Women in masquing Habits, with Musick, they
put themselves in order and dance.

_Blunt._ Adsheartlikins, wou'd 'twere lawful to pull off their false
Faces, that I might see if my Doxy were not amongst 'em.

_Belv._ Ladies and Gentlemen, since you are come so _a propos_, you must
take a small Collation with us.
[To the Masquers.

_Will._ Whilst we'll to the Good Man within, who stays to give us a
Cast of his Office. [To _Hell._] --Have you no trembling at the near
approach?

_Hell._ No more than you have in an Engagement or a Tempest.

_Will._ Egad, thou'rt a brave Girl, and I admire thy Love and Courage.
Lead on, no other Dangers they can dread,
Who venture in the Storms o'th' Marriage-Bed. [Exeunt.

EPILOGUE

_The banisht Cavaliers! a Roving Blade!
A popish Carnival! a Masquerade!
The Devil's in't if this will please the Nation,
In these our blessed Times of Reformation,
When Conventicling is so much in Fashion.
And yet--
That mutinous Tribe less Factions do beget,
Than your continual differing in Wit;
Your Judgment's (as your Passions) a Disease:
Nor Muse nor Miss your Appetite can please;
You're grown as nice as queasy Consciences,
Whose each Convulsion, when the Spirit moves,
Damns every thing that Maggot disapproves._
_With canting Rule you wou'd the Stage refine,
And to dull Method all our Sense confine.
With th' Insolence of Common-wealths you rule,
Where each gay Fop, and politick brave Fool,
On Monarch Wit impose without controul.
As for the last who seldom sees a Play,
Unless it be the old Black-Fryers way,
Shaking his empty Noddle o'er _Bamboo_,
He crys-- Good Faith, these Plays will never do.