Beau. You know the Proverb of the half Loaf, _Ariadne_; a Husband that will deal thee some Love is better than one who can give thee none: you would have a blessed time on’t with old Father _Carlo_. Aria. No matter, a Woman may with some lawful excuse cuckold him, and ’twould be scarce a Sin. Beau. Not so much as lying with him, whose reverend Age wou’d make it look like Incest. Aria. But to marry thee—would be a Tyranny from whence there’s no Appeal: A drinking whoring Husband! ’tis the Devil— Beau. You are deceiv’d, if you think Don _Carlo_ more chaste than I; only duller, and more a Miser, one that fears his Flesh more, and loves his Money better.—Then to be condemn’d to lie with him—oh, who would not 152 rejoice to meet a Woollen-Waistcoat, and knit Night-Cap without a Lining, a Shirt so nasty, a cleanly Ghost would not appear in’t at the latter Day? then the compound of nasty Smells about him, stinking Breath, Mustachoes stuft with villainous snush, Tobacco, and hollow Teeth: thus prepar’d for Delight, you meet in Bed, where you may lie and sigh whole Nights away, he snores it out till Morning, and then rises to his sordid business. Aria. All this frights me not: ’tis still much better than a keeping Husband, whom neither Beauty nor Honour in a Wife can oblige. Beau. Oh, you know not the good-nature of a Man of Wit, at least I shall bear a Conscience, and do thee reason, which Heaven denies to old _Carlo_, were he willing. Aria. Oh, he talks as high, and thinks as well of himself as any young Coxcomb of ye all. Beau. He has reason, for if his Faith were no better than his Works, he’d be damn’d. Aria. Death, who wou’d marry, who wou’d be chaffer’d thus, and sold to Slavery? I’d rather buy a Friend at any Price that I could love and trust. Beau. Ay, could we but drive on such a Bargain. Aria. You should not be the Man; You have a Mistress, Sir, that has your Heart, and all your softer Hours: I know’t, and if I were so wretched as to marry thee, must see my Fortune lavisht out on her; her Coaches, Dress, and Equipage exceed mine by far: Possess she all the day thy Hours of Mirth, good Humour and Expence, thy Smiles, thy Kisses, and thy Charms of Wit. Oh how you talk and look when in her Presence! but when with me, A Pox of Love and Woman-kind, [Sings. And all the Fops adore ’em. How it’s, Cuz—then slap, on goes the Beaver, which being cock’d, you bear up briskly, with the second Part to the same Tune—Harkye, Sir, let me advise you to pack up your 153 Trumpery and be gone, your honourable Love, your matrimonial Foppery, with your other Trinkets thereunto belonging; or I shall talk aloud, and let your Uncle hear you.