_Pet_. Ah, Signior, where the Ladies are privileg’d and Fornication licensed. _Tick_. Right! and when ‘tis licens’d, ‘tis lawful; and when ‘tis lawful, it can be no Sin: besides, _Barberacho_, I may chance to turn her, who knows? _Pet_. Turn her, Signior, alas, any way, which way you please. _Tick_. He, he, he! There thou wert knavish, I doubt--but I mean convert her--nothing else I profess, _Barberacho_. _Pet_. True, Signior, true, she’s a Lady of an easy nature, and an indifferent Argument well handled will do’t--ha--here’s your head of Hair--here’s your natural [_combing out his Hair_.] Frize! And such an Air it gives the Face!--So, Signior--Now you have the utmost my Art can do. [_Takes away the Cloth, and bows_. _Tick_. Well, Signior,--and where’s your Looking-glass? _Pet_. My Looking-glass! _Tick_. Yes, Signior, your Looking-glass! an _English_ Barber wou’d as soon have forgotten to have snapt his fingers, made his leg, or taken his Money, as have neglected his Looking-glass. _Pet_. Ay, Signior, in your Country the Laity have so little Honesty, they are not to be trusted with the taking off your Beard unless you see’t done:--but here’s a Glass, Sir. [_Gives him the Glass_. [Tick. _sets himself and smirks in the Glass_, Pet. _standing behind him, making horns and grimaces, which_ Tick. _sees in the Glass, gravely rises, turns towards_ Petro. _Tick_. Why, how now, _Barberacho_, what monstrous Faces are you making there? _Pet_. All, my Belly, my Belly, Signior: ah, this Wind-Cholick! this Hypocondriack does so torment me! ah-- _Tick_. Alas, poor Knave; _certo_, I thought thou hadst been somewhat uncivil with me, I profess I did. _Pet_. Who, I, Sir, uncivil?--I abuse my Patrone!--I that have almost made my self a Pimp to serve you? _Tick_. Teze, teze, honest _Barberacho!_ no, no, no, all’s well, all’s well:--but hark ye--you will be discreet and secret in this business now, and above all things conceal the knowledge of this Gentlewoman from Sir _Signal_ and Mr. _Galliard_. _Pet_. The Rack, Signior, the Rack shall not extort it. _Tick_. Hold thy Hand--there’s somewhat for thee, [_Gives him Money_.] but shall I, Rogue--shall I see her to night?-- _Pet_. To night, Sir, meet me in the Piazza _D’Hispagnia_, about ten a Clock,--I’ll meet you there,--but ‘tis fit, Signior--that I should provide a Collation,--’tis the custom here, Sir.-- _Tick_. Well, well, what will it come to?--here’s an Angel.-- _Pet_. Why, Sir, ‘twill come to--about--for you wou’d do’t handsomely-- some twenty Crowns.-- _Tick_. How, man, twenty Crowns! _Pet_. Ay, Signior, thereabouts. _Tick_. Twenty Crowns!--Why, ‘tis a Sum, a Portion, a Revenue. _Pet_. Alas, Signior, ‘tis nothing with her,--she’ll look it out in an hour,--ah, such an Eye, so sparkling, with an amorous Twire--Then, Sir-- she’ll kiss it out in a moment,--such a Lip, so red, so round, so plump, so soft, and so--