hing-- by
this Light such a Wench would pass for a Person of Quality in _London_.

_Feth._ Few Ladies have I seen at a Sheriff's Feast have better Faces,
or worn so good Clothes; and by the Lord _Harry_, if these be of the
gentle Craft, I'd not give a Real for an honest Women for my use.

_Will._ Come follow me into the Church, for thither I am sure they're
gone: And I will let you see what a wretched thing you had been had you
lived seven Years longer in _Surrey_, stew'd in Ale and Beef-broth.

_Feth._ O dear _Willmore_, name not those savory things, there's no
jesting with my Stomach; it sleeps now, but if it wakes, wo be to your
Shares at the Ordinary.

_Blunt._ I'll say that for _Fetherfool_, if his Heart were but half so
good as his Stomach, he were a brave Fellow.
[Aside, Exeunt.

_Aria._ I am resolv'd to follow-- and learn, if possible, who 'tis has
made this sudden Conquest o'er me.
[All go off.

[Scene draws, and discovers a Church, a great many People at
Devotion, soft Musick playing. Enter _La Nuche_, _Aurelia_,
_Petron._ and _Sancho_: To them _Willmore_, _Feth._ _Blunt_; then
_Ariadne_, _Lucia_; _Feth._ bows to _La Nuche_ and _Petronella_.

_Feth._ Now as I hope to be sav'd, _Blunt_, she's a most melodious Lady.
Would I were worthy to purchase a Sin or so with her. Would not such a
Beauty reconcile thy Quarrel to the Sex?

_Blunt._ No, were she an Angel in that Shape.

_Feth._ Why, what a pox couldst not lie with her if she'd let thee? By
the Lord _Harry_, as errant a Dog as I am, I'd fain see any of _Cupid's_
Cook-maids put me out of countenance with such a Shoulder of Mutton.

_Aria._ See how he gazes on her-- _Lucia_, go nearer, and o'er-hear 'em.

[_Lucia_ listens.

_Will._ Death, how the charming Hypocrite looks to day, with such a soft
Devotion in her Eyes, as if even now she were praising Heav'n for all
the Advantages it has blest her with.

_Blunt._ Look how _Willmore_ eyes her, the Rogue's smitten heart
deep-- Whores--

_Feth._ Only a Trick to keep her to himself-- he thought the Name of a
_Spanish_ Harlot would fright us from attempting-- I must divert him--
how is't, Captain-- Prithee mind this Musick-- Is it not most
Seraphical?

_Will._ Pox, let the Fidlers mind and tune their Pipes, I've higher
Pleasures now.

_Feth._ Oh, have ye so; what, with Whores, Captain?-- 'Tis a most
delicious Gentlewoman.
[Aside.

_Pet._ Pray, Madam, mind that Cav