asty, a cleanly Ghost would not appear in't at the
latter Day? then the compound of nasty Smells about him, stinking
Breath, Mustachoes stuft with villainous snush, Tobacco, and hollow
Teeth: thus prepar'd for Delight, you meet in Bed, where you may lie and
sigh whole Nights away, he snores it out till Morning, and then rises to
his sordid business.

_Aria._ All this frights me not: 'tis still much better than a keeping
Husband, whom neither Beauty nor Honour in a Wife can oblige.

_Beau._ Oh, you know not the good-nature of a Man of Wit, at least I
shall bear a Conscience, and do thee reason, which Heaven denies to old
_Carlo_, were he willing.

_Aria._ Oh, he talks as high, and thinks as well of himself as any young
Coxcomb of ye all.

_Beau._ He has reason, for if his Faith were no better than his Works,
he'd be damn'd.

_Aria._ Death, who wou'd marry, who wou'd be chaffer'd thus, and sold to
Slavery? I'd rather buy a Friend at any Price that I could love and
trust.

_Beau._ Ay, could we but drive on such a Bargain.

_Aria._ You should not be the Man; You have a Mistress, Sir, that has
your Heart, and all your softer Hours: I know't, and if I were so
wretched as to marry thee, must see my Fortune lavisht out on her; her
Coaches, Dress, and Equipage exceed mine by far: Possess she all the day
thy Hours of Mirth, good Humour and Expence, thy Smiles, thy Kisses, and
thy Charms of Wit. Oh how you talk and look when in her Presence! but
when with me,
_A Pox of Love and Woman-kind,_ [Sings.
_And all the Fops adore 'em._

How it's, Cuz-- then slap, on goes the Beaver, which being cock'd, you
bear up briskly, with the second Part to the same Tune-- Harkye, Sir,
let me advise you to pack up your Trumpery and be gone, your honourable
Love, your matrimonial Foppery, with your other Trinkets thereunto
belonging; or I shall talk aloud, and let your Uncle hear you.

_Beau._ Sure she cannot know I love _La Nuche_. [Aside.] The Devil take
me, spoil'd! What Rascal has inveigled thee? What lying fawning Coward
has abus'd thee? When fell you into this Leudness? Pox, thou art hardly
worth the loving now, that canst be such a Fool, to wish me chaste, or
love me for that Virtue; or that wouldst have me a ceremonious Whelp,
one that makes handsom Legs to Knights without laughing, or with a
sneaking modest Squirish Countenance; assure you, I have my Maidenhead.
A Curse upon thee, the very thought of Wife has made thee fo