Aria. I say, ’tis he: thou’st made so many dull Mistakes to Night, thou darest not trust thy Senses when they’re true—How do you, Sir? Will. That Voice has Comfort in’t, for ’tis a Woman’s: hah, more Interruption? Aria. A little this way, Sir. [Ex. _Aria_, and _Will._ into the Garden. Enter _Beaumond_, _Abevile_ in a submissive Posture. Beau. No more excuses—By all these Circumstances, I know this _Ariadne_ is a Gipsy. What difference then beween a money-taking Mistress and her that gives her Love? only perhaps this sins the closer by’t, and talks of Honour more: What Fool wou’d be a Slave to empty Name, or value Woman for dissembling well? I’ll to _La Nuche_—the honester o’th’ two—_Abevile_—get me my Musick ready, and attend me at _La Nuche’s_. [Ex. severally. Luc. He’s gone, and to his Mistress too. Enter _Ariadne_ pursu’d by _Willmore_. Will. My little _Daphne_, ’tis in vain to fly, unless like her, you cou’d be chang’d into a Tree: _Apollo’s_ self pursu’d not with more eager Fire than I. [Holds her. Aria. Will you not grant a Parly e’er I yield? Will. I’m better at a Storm. Aria. Besides, you’re wounded too. Will. Oh leave those Wounds of Honour to my Surgeon, thy Business is to cure those of Love. Your true bred Soldier ever fights with the more heat for a Wound or two. 180 Aria. Hardly in Venus’ Wars. Will. Her self ne’er thought so when she snatcht her Joys between the rough Encounters of the God of War. Come, let’s pursue the Business we came for: See the kind Night invites, and all the ruffling Winds are husht and still, only the Zephirs spread their tender Wings, courting in gentle Murmurs the gay Boughs; ’twas in a Night like this, Diana taught the Mysteries of Love to the fair Boy Endymion. I am plaguy full of History and Simile to night. Aria. You see how well he far’d for being modest. Will. He might be modest, but ’twas not over-civil to put her Goddessship to asking first; thou seest I’m better bred—Come let’s haste to silent Grots that attend us, dark Groves where none can see, and murmuring Fountains. Aria. Stay, let me consider first, you are a Stranger, inconstant too as Island Winds, and every day are fighting for your Mistresses, of which you’ve had at least four since I saw you first, which is not a whole day. Will. I grant ye, before I was a Lover I ran at random, but I’ll take up now, be a patient Man, and keep to one Woman a Month. Aria. A Month! Will. And a fair Reason, Child; time was, I wou’d have worn one Shirt, or one pair of Shoos so long as have let the Sun set twice upon the same Sin: but see the Power of Love; thou hast bewitched me, that’s certain. Aria. Have a care of giving me the ascendent over ye, for fear I make ye marry me. Will. Hold, I bar that cast, Child; no, I’m none of those Spirits that can be conjur’d into a Wedding-ring, and dance in the dull matrimonial Circle all my Days. Aria. But what think you of a hundred thousand Crowns, and a Beauty of sixteen?