Sep. Your Honour’s bitter, Confound me, where I love I cannot say it, But I must swear’t:  yet such is my ill fortune, Nor vows, nor protestations win belief, I think, and (I can find no other reason) Because I am a Roman.

Ach. No Septimius, To be a Roman were an honour to you, Did not your manners, and your life take from it, And cry aloud, that from Rome you bring nothing But Roman Vices, which you would plant here, But no seed of her vertues.

  Sep. With your reverence
  I am too old to learn.

  Ach. Any thing honest,
  That I believe, without an oath.

Sep. I fear Your Lordship has slept ill to night, and that Invites this sad discourse:  ’twill make you old Before your time:—­O these vertuous Morals, And old religious principles, that fool us!  I have brought you a new Song, will make you laugh, Though you were at your prayers.

  A[c]h. What is the subject? 
  Be free Septimius.

Sep. ’Tis a Catalogue Of all the Gamesters of the Court and City, Which Lord lyes with that Lady, and what Gallant Sports with that Merchants wife; and does relate Who sells her honour for a Diamond, Who, for a tissew robe:  whose husband’s jealous, And who so kind, that, to share with his wife, Will make the match himself:  Harmless conceits, Though fools say they are dangerous:  I sang it The last night at my Lord Photinus table.

  Ach. How? as a Fidler?

Sep. No Sir, as a Guest, A welcom guest too:  and it was approv’d of By a dozen of his friends, though they were touch’d in’t:  For look you, ’tis a kind of merriment, When we have laid by foolish modesty (As not a man of fashion will wear it) To talk what we have done; at least to hear it; If meerily set down, it fires the blood, And heightens Crest-faln appetite.

  Ach. New doctrine!

  Achil. Was’t of your own composing?

Sep. No, I bought it Of a skulking Scribler for two Ptolomies:  But the hints were mine own; the wretch was fearfull:  But I have damn’d my self, should it be question’d, That I will own it.

Ach. And be punished for it:  Take heed:  for you may so long exercise Your scurrilous wit against authority, The Kingdoms Counsels; and make profane Jests, (Which to you (being an atheist) is nothing) Against Religion, that your great maintainers (Unless they would be thought Co-partners with you) Will leave you to the Law:  and then, Septimius, Remember there are whips.

Sep. For whore’s I grant you, When they are out of date, till then are safe too, Or all the Gallants of the Court are Eunuchs, And for mine own defence I’le only add this, I’le be admitted for a wanton tale To some most private Cabinets, when your Priest-hood (Though laden with the mysteries of your goddess) Shall wait without unnoted:  so I leave you To your pious thoughts. [Exit.

  Achil. ’Tis a strange impudence,
  This fellow does put on.