Phil.  What’s that, a Wench?

Sir Tim.  Fie, fie, that’s a gross Name; no, a Miss, that’s the Word—­ a Lady of Delight, a Person of Pleasure and the rest; I’ll keep thee, not a Woman of Quality shall be half so fine—­Come, dear Phillis, yield.  Oh, I am mad for the happy hour—­come, say the word, ’tis but inclining thy Head a little thus, thy pretty Eyes down, and thy Cheeks all Blushes, and fetching a long Sigh—­thus—­with—­do—­what you please —­at the end on’t—­and I shall take it for granted.

Phil.  That, Sir, you’ll never hear me say to any thing but a Husband, if I must say it then.

Sir Tim.  A Husband! it is enough to spoil a Man’s Appetite, the very naming on’t—­By Fortune, thou hast been bred with thy great Grand-mother, some old Queen Elizabeth Lady, that us’d to preach Warnings to young Maidens; but had she liv’d in this Age, she wou’d have repented her Error, especially had she seen the Sum that I offer thee—­Come, let’s in, by Fortune, I’m so vigorous, I shall ravish else.

Phil.  Unhand me, or I’ll call out.  I assure you, this is not the way to gain me.

Sir Tim.  I know there is a way to gain all mortal Womankind; but how to hit the critical Minute of the Berjere—­

Phil.  It is past your Politicks at this time, Sir.

Sir Tim.  I’ll try all ways, and the Devil’s in it, if I don’t hit upon the right at last. [Aside.  All the soft things I’ve said—­

Phil.  That a Knight of your Parts ought to say.

Sir Tim.  Then I have kneel’d—­and cry’d, and swore—­and—­

Phil.  And damn’d your self five hundred times.

Sir Tim.  Yet still y’are impregnable—­I’ll make another Proposition to you, which is both reasonable and modish—­if it prove a Boy—­I’ll marry you—­the Devil’s in’t, if that be not fair.

Phil.  You get no earnest of me, Sir, and so farewel to you.
          
                                             [Ex.  Phillis.

    Enter Sham.

Sir Tim.  Oh, Sham, I am all over fire, mad to enjoy.  I have done what Man can do (without doing what I wou’d do) and still she’s Flint; nothing will down with her but Matrimony—­what shall I do? for thou know’st I cannot marry a Wife without a Fortune.

Sham.  Sir, you know the old Cheat; hire a Lay Rascal in a Canonical Habit, and put a false Marriage upon her.

Sir Tim.  Lord, that this shou’d not enter into my Coxcomb before! haste then and get one—­I’ll have it done immediately, whilst I go after her to keep up my flame.
                    [Ex.  Sir Tim.

Sham.  And I will fit you with a Parson presently.

[Ex.

SCENE III. A Street.

    Enter Friendlove disguis’d as before.