Will. Sweet Soul, let me salute thy Shoe-string. Flor. ’Tis not my _Belvile_—good Heavens, I know him not.—Who are you, and from whence come you? Will. Prithee—prithee, Child—not so many hard Questions—let it suffice I am here, Child—Come, come kiss me. 57 Flor. Good Gods! what luck is mine? Will. Only good luck, Child, parlous good luck—Come hither,—’tis a delicate shining Wench,—by this Hand she’s perfum’d, and smells like any Nosegay.—Prithee, dear Soul, let’s not play the Fool, and lose time,—precious time—for as Gad shall save me, I’m as honest a Fellow as breathes, tho I am a little disguis’d at present.—Come, I say,—why, thou may’st be free with me, I’ll be very secret. I’ll not boast who ’twas oblig’d me, not I—for hang me if I know thy Name. Flor. Heavens! what a filthy beast is this! Will. I am so, and thou oughtst the sooner to lie with me for that reason,—for look you, Child, there will be no Sin in’t, because ’twas neither design’d nor premeditated; ’tis pure Accident on both sides—that’s a certain thing now—Indeed should I make love to you, and you vow Fidelity—and swear and lye till you believ’d and yielded—Thou art therefore (as thou art a good Christian) oblig’d in Conscience to deny me nothing. Now—come, be kind, without any more idle prating. Flor. Oh, I am ruin’d—wicked Man, unhand me. Will. Wicked! Egad, Child, a Judge, were he young and vigorous, and saw those Eyes of thine, would know ’twas they gave the first blow—the first provocation.—Come, prithee let’s lose no time, I say—this is a fine convenient place. Flor. Sir, let me go, I conjure you, or I’ll call out. Will. Ay, ay, you were best to call Witness to see how finely you treat me—do.— Flor. I’ll cry Murder, Rape, or any thing, if you do not instantly let me go. Will. A Rape! Come, come, you lye, you Baggage, you lye: What, I’ll warrant you would fain have the World believe now that you are not so forward as I. No, not you,—why at this time of Night was your Cobweb-door set open, dear Spider—but to catch Flies?—Hah come—or I shall be damnably angry.—Why what a Coil is here.— 58 Flor. Sir, can you think— Will. That you’d do it for nothing? oh, oh, I find what you’d be at—look here, here’s a Pistole for you—here’s a work indeed—here—take it, I say.— Flor. For Heaven’s sake, Sir, as you’re a Gentleman— Will. So—now—she would be wheedling me for more—what, you will not take it then—you’re resolv’d you will not.—Come, come, take it, or I’ll put it up again; for, look ye, I never give more.—Why, how now, Mistress, are you so high i’th’ Mouth, a Pistole won’t down with you?—hah—why, what a work’s here—in good time—come, no struggling, be gone—But an y’are good at a dumb Wrestle, I’m for ye,—look ye,—I’m for ye.— [She struggles with him. Enter _Belvile_ and _Frederick_. Bel. The Door is open, a Pox of this mad Fellow, I’m angry that we’ve lost him, I durst have sworn he had follow’d us. Fred. But you were so hasty, Colonel, to be gone.