Belv. What means this? the Picture’s taken in. Blunt. It may be the Wench is good natur’d, and will be kind _gratis_. Your Friend’s a proper handsom Fellow. 45 Belv. I rather think she has cut his Throat and is fled: I am mad he should throw himself into Dangers—Pox on’t, I shall want him to night—let’s knock and ask for him. Hell. My heart goes a-pit a-pat, for fear ’tis my Man they talk of. [Knock, _Moretta_ above. More. What would you have? Belv. Tell the Stranger that enter’d here about two Hours ago, that his Friends stay here for him. Moret. A Curse upon him for _Moretta_, would he were at the Devil—but he’s coming to you. [Enter _Wilmore_. Hell. I, I, ’tis he. Oh how this vexes me. Belv. And how, and how, dear Lad, has Fortune smil’d? Are we to break her Windows, or raise up Altars to her! hah! Will. Does not my Fortune sit triumphant on my Brow? dost not see the little wanton God there all gay and smiling? have I not an Air about my Face and Eyes, that distinguish me from the Croud of common Lovers? By Heav’n, _Cupid’s_ Quiver has not half so many Darts as her Eyes—Oh such a _Bona Rota_, to sleep in her Arms is lying in Fresco, all perfum’d Air about me. Hell. Here’s fine encouragement for me to fool on. [Aside. Will. Hark ye, where didst thou purchase that rich Canary we drank to-day? Tell me, that I may adore the Spigot, and sacrifice to the Butt: the Juice was divine, into which I must dip my Rosary, and then bless all things that I would have bold or fortunate. Belv. Well, Sir, let’s go take a Bottle, and hear the Story of your Success. Fred. Would not _French_ Wine do better? Will. Damn the hungry Balderdash; cheerful Sack has a generous Virtue in’t, inspiring a successful Confidence, gives Eloquence to the Tongue, and Vigour to the Soul; and has in a few Hours compleated all my Hopes and Wishes. There’s nothing left to raise a new Desire in me—Come let’s be gay and wanton—and, Gentlemen, study, study what you want, for here are Friends,—that will 46 supply, Gentlemen,—hark! what a charming sound they make—’tis he and she Gold whilst here, shall beget new Pleasures every moment. Blunt. But hark ye, Sir, you are not married, are you? Will. All the Honey of Matrimony, but none of the Sting, Friend. Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, thou’rt a fortunate Rogue. Will. I am so, Sir, let these inform you.—Ha, how sweetly they chime! Pox of Poverty, it makes a Man a Slave, makes Wit and Honour sneak, my Soul grew lean and rusty for want of Credit. Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, this I like well, it looks like my lucky Bargain! Oh how I long for the Approach of my Squire, that is to conduct me to her House again. Why! here’s two provided for. Fred. By this light y’re happy Men. Blunt. Fortune is pleased to smile on us, Gentlemen,—to smile on us. Enter _Sancho_, and pulls _Blunt_ by the Sleeve. They go aside. Sancho. Sir, my Lady expects you—she has remov’d all that might oppose your Will and Pleasure—and is impatient till you come.