Will. But well— Faith I’m glad to meet you again in a warm Climate, where the kind Sun has its god-like Power still over the Wine and Woman.—Love and Mirth are my Business in _Naples_; and if I mistake not the Place, here’s an excellent Market for Chapmen of my Humour. Belv. See here be those kind Merchants of Love you look for. Enter several Men in masquing Habits, some playing on Musick, others dancing after; Women drest like Curtezans, with Papers pinn’d to their Breasts, and Baskets of Flowers in their Hands. 19 Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, what have we here! Fred. Now the Game begins. Will. Fine pretty Creatures! may a stranger have leave to look and love?—What’s here—_Roses for every Month!_ [Reads the Paper. Blunt. Roses for every Month! what means that? Belv. They are, or wou’d have you think they’re Curtezans, who herein _Naples_ are to be hir’d by the Month. Will. Kind and obliging to inform us—Pray where do these Roses grow? I would fain plant some of ’em in a Bed of mine. Wom. Beware such Roses, Sir. Will. A Pox of fear: I’ll be bak’d with thee between a pair of Sheets, and that’s thy proper Still, so I might but strow such Roses over me and under me—Fair one, wou’d you wou’d give me leave to gather at your Bush this idle Month, I wou’d go near to make some Body smell of it all the Year after. Belv. And thou hast need of such a Remedy, for thou stinkest of Tar and Rope-ends, like a Dock or Pesthouse. [The Woman puts herself into the Hands of a Man, and _Exit_. Will. Nay, nay, you shall not leave me so. Belv. By all means use no Violence here. Will. Death! just as I was going to be damnably in love, to have her led off! I could pluck that Rose out-of his Hand, and even kiss the Bed, the Bush it grew in. Fred. No Friend to Love like a long Voyage at Sea. Blunt. Except a Nunnery, _Fred_. Will. Death! but will they not be kind, quickly be kind? Thou know’st I’m no tame Sigher, but a rampant Lion of the Forest. Two Men drest all over with Horns of several sorts, making Grimaces at one another, with Papers pinn’d on their Backs, advance from the farther end of the Scene. 20 Belv. Oh the fantastical Rogues, how they are dress’d! ’tis a Satir against the whole Sex. Will. Is this a Fruit that grows in this warm Country? Belv. Yes: ’Tis pretty to see these _Italian_ start, swell, and stab at the Word _Cuckold_, and yet stumble at Horns on every Threshold. Will. See what’s on their Back—_Flowers for every Night._ [Reads. —Ah Rogue! And more sweet than Roses of ev’ry Month! This is a Gardiner of _Adam’s_ own breeding. [They dance. Belv. What think you of those grave People?—is a Wake in _Essex_ half so mad or extravagant? Will. I like their sober grave way, ’tis a kind of legal authoriz’d Fornication, where the Men are not chid for’t, nor the Women despis’d, as amongst our dull _English_; even the Monsieurs want that part of good Manners.