Will. Faith, e’en with a fit of Kindness, poor Soul—she would to Sea with me, and in a Storm—far from Land, she gave up the Ghost—’twas a Loss, but I must bear it with a Christian Fortitude. Beau. Short Happinesses vanish like to Dreams. Will. Ay faith, and nothing remains with me but the sad Remembrance—not so much as the least Part of her hundred thousand Crowns; _Brussels_ that inchanted Court has eas’d me of that Grief, where our Heroes act _Tantalus_ better than ever _Ovid_ describ’d him, condemn’d daily to see an Apparition of Meat, Food in Vision only. Faith, I had Bowels, was good-natur’d, and lent upon the publick Faith as far as ’twill go—But come, let’s leave this mortifying Discourse, and tell me how the price of Pleasure goes. 123 Beau. At the old Rates still; he that gives most is happiest, some few there are for Love! Will. Ah, one of the last, dear _Beaumond_; and if a Heart or Sword can purchase her, I’ll bid as fair as the best. Damn it, I hate a Whore that asks me Mony. Beau. Yet I have known thee venture all thy Stock for a new Woman. Will. Ay, such a Fool I was in my dull Days of Constancy, but I am now for Change, (and should I pay as often,’twould undo me)—for Change, my Dear, of Place, Clothes, Wine, and Women. Variety is the Soul of Pleasure, a Good unknown; and we want Faith to find it. Beau. Thou wouldst renounce that fond Opinion, _Willmore_, didst thou see a Beauty here in Town, whose Charms have Power to fix inconstant Nature or Fortune were she tottering on her Wheel. Will. Her Name, my Dear, her Name? Beau. I would not breathe it even in my Complaints, lest amorous Winds should bear it o’er the World, and make Mankind her Slaves; But that it is a Name too cheaply known, And she that owns it may be as cheaply purchas’d. Will. Hah! cheaply purchas’d too! I languish for her. Beau. Ay, there’s the Devil on’t, she is—a Whore. Will. Ah, what a charming Sound that mighty Word bears! Beau. Damn her, she’ll be thine or any body’s. Will. I die for her— Beau. Then for her Qualities— Will. No more—ye Gods, I ask no more, Be she but fair and much a Whore—Come let’s to her. Beau. Perhaps to morrow you may see this Woman. Will. Death,’tis an Age. Feth. Oh, Captain, the strangest News, Captain. Will. Prithee what? Feth. Why, Lieutenant _Shift_ here tells us of two 124 Monsters arriv’d from _Mexico_, Jews of vast Fortunes, with an old Jew Uncle their Guardian; they are worth a hundred thousand Pounds a piece—Marcy upon’s, why,’tis a Sum able to purchase all _Flanders_ again from his most christian Majesty. Will. Ha, ha, ha, Monsters! Beau. He tells you Truth, _Willmore_. Blunt. But hark ye, Lieutenant, are you sure they are not married? Beau. Who the Devil would venture on such formidable Ladies? Feth. How, venture on ’em! by the Lord _Harry_, and that would I, tho I’m a Justice of the Peace, and they be Jews, (which to a Christian is a thousand Reasons.)