Blunt. In a Spanish Habit with a Vengeance! I had rather be in the Inquisition for Judaism, than in this Doublet and Breeches; a Pillory were an easy Collar to this, three Handfuls high; and these Shoes too are worse than the Stocks, with the Sole an Inch shorter than my Foot: In fine, Gentlemen, methinks I look altogether like a Bag of Bays stuff’d full of Fools Flesh. Belv. Methinks ’tis well, and makes thee look _en Cavalier:_ Come, Sir, settle your Face, and salute our Friends, Lady— Blunt. Hah! Say’st thou so, my little Rover? [To _Hell._] Lady—(if you be one) give me leave to kiss your Hand, and tell you, adsheartlikins, for all I look so, I am your humble Servant—A Pox of my _Spanish_ Habit. Will. Hark—what’s this? [Musick is heard to Play. Enter _Boy_. Boy. Sir, as the Custom is, the gay People in Masquerade, who make every Man’s House their own, are coming up. Enter several Men and Women in masquing Habits, with Musick, they put themselves in order and dance. Blunt. Adsheartlikins, wou’d ’twere lawful to pull off their false Faces, that I might see if my Doxy were not amongst ’em. 105 Belv. Ladies and Gentlemen, since you are come so _a propos_, you must take a small Collation with us. [To the Masquers. Will. Whilst we’ll to the Good Man within, who stays to give us a Cast of his Office. [To _Hell._ —Have you no trembling at the near approach? Hell. No more than you have in an Engagement or a Tempest. Will. Egad, thou’rt a brave Girl, and I admire thy Love and Courage. Lead on, no other Dangers they can dread, Who venture in the Storms o’th’ Marriage-Bed. [Exeunt. EPILOGUE The banisht Cavaliers! a Roving Blade! A popish Carnival! a Masquerade! The Devil’s in’t if this will please the Nation, In these our blessed Times of Reformation, When Conventicling is so much in Fashion. And yet— That mutinous Tribe less Factions do beget, Than your continual differing in Wit; Your Judgment’s (as your Passions) a Disease: Nor Muse nor Miss your Appetite can please; You’re grown as nice as queasy Consciences, Whose each Convulsion, when the Spirit moves, Damns every thing that Maggot disapproves. With canting Rule you wou’d the Stage refine, And to dull Method all our Sense confine. With th’ Insolence of Common-wealths you rule, Where each gay Fop, and politick brave Fool, On Monarch Wit impose without controul. As for the last who seldom sees a Play, Unless it be the old Black-Fryers way, 106 Shaking his empty Noddle o’er _Bamboo_, He crys—Good Faith, these Plays will never do. —Ah, Sir, in my young days, what lofty Wit, What high-strain’d Scenes of Fighting there were writ: These are slight airy Toys. But tell me, pray, What has the _House of Commons_ done to day? Then shews his Politicks, to let you see Of State Affairs he’ll judge as notably, As he can do of Wit and Poetry. The younger Sparks, who hither do resort, Cry— Pox o’ your gentle things, give us more Sport; —Damn me, I’m sure ’twill never please the Court.