Bel.  Oh, I can towse, and ruffle, like any Leviathan, when I begin—­ Come, prove my Vigor. [Towses her.

Flaunt.  Oh, Lord, Sir!  You tumble all my Garniture.

Bel.  There’s Gold to buy thee more—­

Flaunt.  Oh, sweet Sir—­wou’d my Knight were hang’d, so I were well rid of him now—­Well, Sir, I swear you are the most agreeable Person—­

Bel.  Am I?—­let us be more familiar then—­I’ll kiss thy Hand, thy Breast, thy Lips—­and—­

Flaunt.  All—­you please, Sir—­

Bel.  A tractable Sinner! [Offers to kiss her. 
Faugh—­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.