Fred. Away with that dry method, I will have none on’t.  To the next.

Cam. Love alone, is either plain wenching, where every courtezan is your mistress, and every man your rival; or else, what’s worse, plain whining after one woman:  that is, walking before her door by day, and haunting her street by night, with guitars, dark-lanthorns, and rondaches[3].

Aur. Which, I take it, is, or will he our case, Camillo.

Fred. Neither of these will fit my humour:  If your third prove not more pleasant, I shall stick to the old Almain recreation; the divine bottle, and the bounteous glass, that tuned up old Horace to his odes.

Aur. You shall need to have no recourse to that; for love and conversation will do your business:  that is, sir, a most delicious courtezan,—­I do not mean down-right punk,—­but punk of more than ordinary sense in conversation; punk in ragou, punk, who plays on the lute, and sings; and, to sum up all, punk, who cooks and dresses up herself, with poignant sauce, to become a new dish every time she is served up to you.

Fred. This I believe, Aurelian, is your method of living, you talk of it so savourily.

Aur. There is yet another more insipid sort of love and conversation:  As, for example, look you there, sir; the courtship of our nuns. [Pointing to the Nunnery.] They talk prettily; but, a pox on them, they raise our appetites, and then starve us.  They are as dangerous as cold fruits without wine, and are never to be used but where there are abundance of wenches in readiness, to qualify them.

Cam. But yet they are ever at hand, and easy to come by; and if you’ll believe an experienced sinner, easiness in love is more than half the pleasure of it.

Fred. This way of chatting pleases me; for debauchery, I hate it; and to love is not in my nature, except it be my friends.  Pray, what do you call that nunnery?

Cam. ’Tis a house of Benedictines, called the Torre di Specchi, where only ladies of the best quality are professed.
                      [LUCRETIA and HIPPOLITA appear at the grate.

Aur. Look you yonder, sir, are two of the pretty magpies in white and black.  If you will lull yourself into a Platonic dream, you may; but consider your sport will be dull when you play without stakes.

Fred. No matter, I’ll fool away an hour of courtship; for I never was engaged in a serious love, nor I believe can be.  Farewell, gentlemen; at this time I shall dispense with your attendance;—­nay, without ceremony, because I would be incognito.

Cam. Come then, Aurelian, to our own affairs.
                                     [Exeunt AURELIAN and CAMILLO.

The Prince and ASCANIO approach.

Fred. [To LUCRETIA.] For what crime, fair creature, were you condemned to this perpetual prison?