Jen.  Well!  Be it so, we may arrive to that excellent Degree of Cracking, to be kept too one day.

Mrs. Driv.  Well, well, get your selves in order to go up to the Gentlemen.

Flaunt. Driver, what art thou talking to those poor Creatures?  Lord, how they stink of Paint and Pox, faugh—­

Mrs. Driv.  They were only complaining that you that were kept, shou’d intrude upon the Privileges of the Commoners.

Flaunt.  Lord, they think there are such Joys in Keeping, when I vow, Driver, after a while, a Miss has as painful a Life as a Wife; our Men drink, stay out late, and whore, like any Husbands.

Driv.  But I hope in the Lord, Mrs. Flauntit, yours is no such Man; I never saw him, but I have heard he’s under decent Correction.

Flaunt.  Thou art mistaken, Driver, I can keep him within no moderate Bounds without Blows; but for his filthy Custom of Wenching, I have almost broke him of that—­but prithee, Driver, who are these Gentlemen?

Driv.  Truly, I know not; but they are young, and fine as Princes:  two of ’em were disguis’d in masking Habits last Night, but they have sent ’em away this Morning, and they are free as Emperors—­One of ’em has lost a Thousand Pound at Play, and never repin’d at it; 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.