Ang. Well, Sir, you may be gay; all Happiness, all Joys pursue you still, Fortune’s your Slave, and gives you every hour choice of new Hearts and Beauties, till you are cloy’d with the repeated Bliss, which others vainly languish for—But know, false Man, that I shall be reveng’d. [Turns away in a Rage. Will. So, ’gad, there are of those faint-hearted Lovers, whom such a sharp Lesson next their Hearts would make as impotent as Fourscore—pox o’ this whining—my Bus’ness is to laugh and love—a pox on’t; I hate your sullen Lover, a Man shall lose as much time to put you in Humour now, as would serve to gain a new Woman. Ang. I scorn to cool that Fire I cannot raise, Or do the Drudgery of your virtuous Mistress. Will. A virtuous Mistress! Death, what a thing thou hast found out for me! why what the Devil should I do with a virtuous Woman?—a fort of ill-natur’d Creatures, that take a Pride to torment a Lover. Virtue is but an Infirmity in Women, a Disease that renders even the 71 handsom ungrateful; whilst the ill-favour’d, for want of Solicitations and Address, only fancy themselves so.—I have lain with a Woman of Quality, who has all the while been railing at Whores. Ang. I will not answer for your Mistress’s Virtue, Tho she be young enough to know no Guilt: And I could wish you would persuade my Heart, ’Twas the two hundred thousand Crowns you courted. Will. Two hundred thousand Crowns! what Story’s this?—what Trick?—what Woman?—ha. Ang. How strange you make it! have you forgot the Creature you entertain’d on the Piazza last night? Will. Ha, my Gipsy worth two hundred thousand Crowns!—oh how I long to be with her—pox, I knew she was of Quality. [Aside. Ang. False Man, I see my Ruin in thy Face. How many vows you breath’d upon my Bosom, Never to be unjust—have you forgot so soon? Will. Faith no, I was just coming to repeat ’em—but here’s a Humour indeed—would make a Man a Saint—Wou’d she’d be angry enough to leave me, and command me not to wait on her. [Aside. Enter _Hellena_, drest in Man’s Clothes. Hell. This must be _Angelica_, I know it by her mumping Matron here—Ay, ay,’tis she: my mad Captain’s with her too, for all his swearing—how this unconstant Humour makes me love him:—pray, good grave Gentlewoman, is not this _Angelica?_ Moret. My too young Sir, it is—I hope ’tis one from Don _Antonio_. [Goes to _Angelica_. Hell. Well, something I’ll do to vex him for this. [Aside. Ang. I will not speak with him; am I in humour to receive a Lover? Will. Not speak with him! why I’ll be gone—and wait your idler minutes—Can I shew less Obedience to the thing I love so fondly? [Offers to go. 72 Ang. A fine Excuse this—stay— Will. And hinder your Advantage: should I repay your Bounties so ungratefully? Ang. Come hither, Boy,—that I may let you see How much above the Advantages you name I prize one Minute’s Joy with you.