_Sir John._ Zoons, Sir, my Lord _Rake_ and I are Hand and Glove: I believe we may get our Bones broke together to-night; have you a mind to share a Frolick? _Const._ Not I, truly; my Talent lies to softer Exercises. _Sir John._ What, a Down-Bed and a Strumpet? A pox of Venery, I say. Will you come and drink with me this Afternoon? _Const._ I can't drink to-day, but we'll come and sit an Hour with you, if you will. _Sir John._ Phugh, Pox, sit an Hour! Why can't you drink? _Const._ Because I'm to see my Mistress. _Sir John._ Who's that? _Const._ Why, do you use to tell? _Sir John._ Yes. _Const._ So won't I. _Sir John._ Why? _Const._ Because 'tis a Secret. _Sir John._ Would my Wife knew it, 'twould be no Secret long. _Const._ Why, do you think she can't keep a Secret? _Sir John._ No more than she can keep _Lent_. _Heart._ Pr'ythee, tell it her to try, _Constant_. _Sir John._ No, pr'ythee, don't, that I mayn't be plagu'd with it. _Const._ I'll hold you a Guinea you don't make her tell it you. _Sir John._ I'll hold you a Guinea I do. _Const._ Which way? _Sir John._ Why, I'll beg her not to tell it me. _Heart._ Nay, if any thing does it, that will. _Const._ But do you think, Sir---- _Sir John._ Oons, Sir, I think a Woman and a Secret are the two impertinentest Themes in the Universe: Therefore pray let's hear no more of my Wife, nor your Mistress. Damn 'em both with all my heart, and every thing else that daggles a Petticoat, except four generous Whores, with _Betty Sands_ at the Head of 'em, who are drunk with my Lord _Rake_ and I ten times in a Fortnight. [_Exit ~Sir John~._ _Const._ Here's a dainty Fellow for you! And the veriest Coward too. But his Usage of his Wife makes me ready to stab the Villain. _Heart._ Lovers are short-sighted: All their Senses run into that of Feeling. This Proceeding of his is the only thing on Earth can make your Fortune. If any thing can prevail with her to accept of a Gallant, 'tis his ill Usage of her; for Women will do more for Revenge, than they'll do for the Gospel. Pr'ythee, take heart, I have great hopes for you: And since I can't bring you quite off of her, I'll endeavour to bring you quite on; for a whining Lover is the damn'dest Companion upon Earth. _Const._ My dear Friend, flatter me a little more with these Hopes; for whilst they prevail, I have Heaven within me, and could melt with Joy. _Heart._ Pray, no melting yet; let things go farther first. This afternoon, perhaps, we shall make some advance. In the mean while, let's go dine at _Locket_'s, and let Hope get you a Stomach. [_Exeunt._ +SCENE+, _Lady_ Fancyfull's _House_. _Enter Lady ~Fancyfull~ and ~Madamoiselle~._ _Lady Fan._ Did you ever see any thing so _importune, Madamoiselle_? _Madam._ Inteed, Matam, to say de trute, he want leetel Good-breeding.