Will. Oh most damnably, and a confounded Blockhead, two certain Remedies against your Pride and Scorn. La Nu. Have you done, Sir? Will. With thee and all thy Sex, of which I’ve try’d an hundred, and found none true or honest. 133 La Nu. Oh, I doubt not the number: for you are one of those healthy-stomacht Lovers, that can digest a Mistress in a Night, and hunger again next Morning: a Pox of your whining consumptive Constitution, who are only constant for want of Appetite: you have a swinging Stomach to Variety, and Want having set an edge upon your Invention, (with which you cut thro all Difficulties) you grow more impudent by Success. Will. I am not always scorn’d then. La Nu. I have known you as confidently put your Hands into your Pockets for Money in a Morning, as if the Devil had been your Banker, when you knew you put ’em off at Night as empty as your Gloves. Will. And it may be found Money there too. La Nu. Then with this Poverty so proud you are, you will not give the Wall to the Catholick King, unless his Picture hung upon’t. No Servants, no Money, no Meat, always on foot, and yet undaunted still. Will. Allow me that, Child. La Nu. I wonder what the Devil makes you so termagant on our Sex, ’tis not your high feeding, for your Grandees only dine, and that but when Fortune pleases—For your parts, who are the poor dependent, brown Bread and old _Adam’s_ Ale is only current amongst ye; yet if little _Eve_ walk in the Garden, the starv’d lean Rogues neigh after her, as if they were in Paradise. Will. Still true to Love you see—- La Nu. I heard an _English_ Capuchin swear, that if the King’s Followers could be brought to pray as well as fast, there would be more Saints among ’em than the Church has ever canoniz’d. Will. All this with Pride I own, since ’tis a royal Cause I suffer for; go pursue your Business your own way, insnare the Fool—I saw the Toils you set, and how that Face was ordered for the Conquest, your Eyes brimful of dying lying Love; and now and then a wishing Glance or Sigh 134 thrown as by chance; which when the happy Coxcomb caught—you feign’d a Blush, as angry and asham’d of the Discovery: and all this Cunning’s for a little mercenary Gain—fine Clothes, perhaps some Jewels too, whilst all the Finery cannot hide the Whore! La Nu. There’s your eternal Quarrel to our Sex, ’twere a fine Trade indeed to keep a Shop and give your Ware for Love: would it turn to account think ye, Captain, to trick and dress, to receive all wou’d enter? faith, Captain, try the Trade. Pet. What in Discourse with this Railer!—come away; Poverty’s catching. [Returns from Discourse with _Feth._ speaks to _San._ Will. So is the Pox, good Matron, of which you can afford good Penniworths. La Nu. He charms me even with his angry Looks, and will undo me yet. Pet. Let’s leave this Place, I’ll tell you my Success as we go.