Aria. I am not to be sold, nor fond of Praise I merit not. Will. How, not to be sold too! By this light, Child, thou speakest like a Cherubim, I have not heard so obliging a Sound from the Mouth of Woman-kind this many a Day—I find we must be better acquainted, my Dear. Aria. Your Reason, good familiar Sir, I see no such Necessity. Will. Child, you are mistaken, I am in great Necessity; for first I love thee—desperately—have I not damn’d my Soul already for thee, and wouldst thou be so wicked to refuse a little Consolation to my Body? Then secondly, I see thou art frank and good-natur’d, and wilt do Reason _gratis_. Aria. How prove ye that, good Mr. Philospher? Will. Thou say’st thou’rt not to be sold, and I’m sure thou’rt to be had—that lovely Body of so divine a Form, those soft smooth Arms and Hands, were made t’embrace as well as be embrac’d; that delicate white rising Bosom to be prest, and all thy other Charms to be enjoy’d. 137 Aria. By one that can esteem ’em to their worth, can set a Value and a Rate upon ’em. Will. Name not those Words, they grate my Ears like Jointure, that dull conjugal Cant that frights the generous Lover. Rate—Death, let the old Dotards talk of Rates, and pay it t’atone for the Defects of Impotence. Let the sly Statesman, who jilts the Commonwealth with his grave Politicks, pay for the Sin, that he may doat in secret; let the brisk Fool inch out his scanted Sense with a large Purse more eloquent than he: But tell not me of Rates, who bring a Heart, Youth, Vigor, and a Tongue to sing the Praise of every single Pleasure thou shalt give me. Aria. Then if I should be kind, I perceive you would not keep the Secret. Will. Secrecy is a damn’d ungrateful Sin, Child, known only where Religion and Small-beer are current, despis’d where _Apollo_ and the Vine bless the Country: you find none of _Jove’s_ Mistresses hid in Roots and Plants, but fixt Stars in Heaven for all to gaze and wonder at—and tho I am no God, my Dear, I’ll do a Mortal’s Part, and generously tell the admiring World what hidden Charms thou hast: Come, lead me to some Place of Happiness— Blunt. Prithee, honest Damsel, be not so full of Questions; will a Pistole or two do thee any hurt? Luc. None at all, Sir— Blunt. Thou speak’st like a hearty Wench—and I believe hast not been one of _Venus’_ Hand-maids so long, but thou understand thy Trade—In short, fair Damsel, this honest Fellow here who is so termagant upon thy Lady, is my Friend, my particular Friend, and therefore I would have him handsomly, and well-favour’dly abus’d—you conceive me. Luc. Truly, Sir, a friendly Request—but in what Nature abus’d? Blunt. Nature!—why any of your Tricks would serve—but if he could be conveniently strip’d and beaten, or 138 tost in a Blanket, or any such trivial Business, thou wouldst do me a singular Kindness; as for Robbery he defies the Devil: an empty Pocket is an Antidote against that Ill.