ugh--how she smells--had I approach'd so near divine _Celinda_, what
A natural Fragrancy had sent it self through all my ravisht Senses!
[_Aside_.

_Flaunt_. The Man's extasy'd, sure, I shall take him.
Come, Sir, you're sad.

_Bel_. As Angels fall'n from the Divine Abode,
And now am lighted on a very Hell!
--But this is not the way to thrive in Wickedness;
I must rush on to Ruin--Come, fair Mistress,
Will you not shew me some of your Arts of Love?
For I am very apt to learn of Beauty--Gods--
What is't I negotiate for?--a Woman!
Making a Bargain to possess a Woman!
Oh, never, never!

_Flaunt_. The Man is in love, that's certain--as I was saying, Sir--

_Bel_. Be gone, Repentance! Thou needless Goodness,
Which if I follow, canst lead me to no Joys.
Come, tell me the Price of all your Pleasures.

Sir _Tim_. Look you, Mistress, I am but a Country Knight.
Yet I shou'd be glad of your farther Acquaintance.
--Pray, who may that Lady be--

_Driv_. Who, Mrs. Flauntit, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Ay, she: she's tearing fine, by Fortune.

_Driv_. I'll assure you, Sir, she's kept, and is a great Rarity,
but to a Friend, or so--

Sir _Tim_. Hum--kept--pray, by whom?

_Driv_. Why, a silly Knight, Sir, that--

Sir _Tim_. Ay, ay, silly indeed--a Pox upon her--a silly Knight,
you say--

_Driv_. Ay, Sir, one she makes a very Ass of.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, so methinks--but she's kind, and will do reason for
all him.

_Driv_. To a Friend, a Man of Quality--or so.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, she blinds the Knight.

_Driv_. Alas, Sir, easily--he, poor Cully, thinks her a very Saint--but
when he's out of the way, she comes to me to pleasure a Friend.

Sir _Tim_. But what if the Fool miss her?

_Driv_. She cries Whore first, brings him upon his Knees for her Fault;
and a piece of Plate, or a new Petticoat, makes his Peace again.

Sir _Tim. Why--look you, Mistress, I am that Fop, that very silly Knight,
and the rest that you speak of.

_Driv_. How, Sir? then I'm undone, she's the Upholder of my Calling, the
very Grace of my Function.

Sir _Tim_. Is she so? e'en keep her to your self then, I'll have no more
of her, by Fortune--I humbly thank you for your Intelligence, and the
rest. Well--I see there's not one honest Whore i'th' Nation, by Fortune.

_Enter_ Charles Bellmour, _and_ Trusty.

Hark ye, Mistress, what was your Bus'ness here?

_Flaunt_. To meet a Rogue!--

S