one's a Knight,
and I believe his Courage is cool'd, for he has ferreted my Maids over
and over to Night--But 'tis the fine, young, handsom Squire that I
design you for.

_Flaunt_. No matter for his Handsomness, let me have him that has
most Money.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE III. _Another Chamber in the Brothel, a Table with Box and Dice_.

_Enter_ Bellmour, _Sir_ Timothy, Sham _and_ Sharp.

_Bel_. Damn it, give us more Wine. [_Drinks_.
Where stands the Box and Dice?--Why, _Sham_.

_Sham_. Faith, Sir, Your Luck's so bad, I han't the Conscience to play
longer--Sir _Timothy_ and you play off a hundred Guineas, and see if
Luck will turn.

_Bel_. Do you take me for a Country Squire, whose Reputation will be
crackt at the loss of a petty Thousand? You have my Note for it to my
Goldsmith.

_Sham_. 'Tis sufficient if it were for ten thousand.

_Bel_. Why, Sir _Timothy_--Pox on't, thou'rt dull, we are not half
debauch'd and leud enough, give us more Wine.

Sir _Tim_. Faith, _Frank_, I'm a little maukish with sitting up all
Night, and want a small refreshment this Morning--Did we not send
for Whores?

_Bel_. No, I am not in humour for a Wench--
By Heaven, I hate the Sex.
All but divine _Celinda_,
Appear strange Monsters to my Eyes and Thoughts.

Sir _Tim_. What, art Italianiz'd, and lovest thy own Sex?

_Bel_. I'm for any thing that's out of the common Road of Sin; I love
a Man that will be damn'd for something: to creep by slow degrees to
Hell, as if he were afraid the World shou'd see which way he went, I
scorn it, 'tis like a Conventicler--No, give me a Man, who to be certain
of's Damnation, will break a solemn Vow to a contracted Maid.

Sir _Tim_. Ha, ha, ha, I thought thou would'st have said at least--had
murder'd his Father, or ravish'd his Mother--Break a Vow, quoth ye--by
Fortune, I have broke a thousand.

_Bel_. Well said, my Boy! A Man of Honour! And will be ready whene'er
the Devil calls for thee--So--ho--more Wine, more Wine, and Dice.

_Enter a Servant with Dice and Wine_.

Come, Sir, let me--
[_Throws and loses_.

Sir _Tim_. What will you set me, Sir?

_Bel_. Cater-tray--a hundred Guineas--oh, damn the Dice--'tis mine--come,
a full Glass--Damnation to my Uncle.

Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, I'll do thee reason--give me the Glass, and,
_Sham_, to thee--Confusion to the musty Lord.

_Bel_. So--now I'm like my self, profanely wicked.