alier, who takes such pains to
recommend himself to you.

_La Nu._ Yes, for a fine conceited Fool--

_Pet._ Catso, a Fool, what else?

_La Nu._ Right, they are our noblest Chapmen; a Fool, and a rich Fool,
and an _English_ rich Fool--

_Feth._ 'Sbud, she eyes me, _Ned_, I'll set my self in order, it may
take-- hah--
[Sets himself.

_Pet._ Let me alone to manage him, I'll to him--

_La Nu._ Or to the Devil, so I had one Minute's time to speak to
_Willmore_.

_Pet._ And accosting him thus-- tell him--

_La Nu._ [in a hasty Tone.] --I am desperately in love with him, and am
Daughter, Wife, or Mistress to some Grandee-- bemoan the Condition of
Women of Quality in _Spain_, who by too much Constraint are oblig'd to
speak first-- but were we blest like other Nations where Men and Women
meet--
[Speaking so fast, she offering to put in her word, is still
prevented by t'other's running on.

_Pet._ What Herds of Cuckolds would _Spain_ breed-- 'Slife, I could find
in my Heart to forswear your Service: Have I taught ye your Trade, to
become my Instructor, how to cozen a dull phlegmatick greasy-brain'd
Englishman?-- go and expect your Wishes.

_Will._ So, she has sent her Matron to our Coxcomb; she saw he was a
Cully fit for Game-- who would not be a Rascal to be rich, a Dog, an
Ass, a beaten, harden'd Coward-- by Heaven, I will possess this gay
Insensible, to make me hate her-- most extremely curse her-- See if she
be not fallen to Pray'r again, from thence to Flattery, Jilting and
Purse-taking, to make the Proverb good-- My fair false _Sybil_, what
Inspirations are you waiting for from Heaven, new Arts to cheat
Mankind!-- Tell me, with what Face canst thou be devout, or ask any
thing from thence, who hast made so leud a use of what it has already
lavish'd on thee?

_La Nu._ Oh my careless Rover! I perceive all your hot Shot is not yet
spent in Battel, you have a Volley in reserve for me still-- Faith,
Officer, the Town has wanted Mirth in your Absence.

_Will._ And so might all the wiser part for thee, who hast no Mirth, no
Gaiety about thee, and when thou wouldst design some Coxcomb's ruin; to
all the rest, a Soul thou hast so dull, that neither Love nor Mirth, nor
Wit or Wine can wake it to good Nature-- thou'rt one who lazily work'st
in thy Trade, and sell'st for ready Mony so much Kindness; a tame cold
Sufferer only, and no more.

_La Nu._ What, you would have a Mistress like a Squirrel in a Cage,