_Gal_. Why, faith, as you say, _Harry_, that Lady is beautiful--and, make us thankful--kind: why, ‘tis _Euphemia_, Sir, the very Curtezan I wou’d have shew’d you.-- _Fil_. Forbear, I am not fit for Mirth. _Gal_. Nor I in Humour to make you merry; I tell ye--yonder Woman--is a Curtezan. _Fil_. Do not profane, nor rob Heaven of a Saint. _Gal_. Nor you rob Mankind of such a Blessing, by giving it to Heaven before its time.--I tell thee ‘tis a Whore, a fine desirable expensive Whore. _Fil_. By Heaven, it cannot be! I’ll speak to her, and call her my _Marcella_, and undeceive thy leud Opinion. [_Offers to go, he holds him_. _Gal_. Do, salute her in good Company for an honest Woman--do, and spoil her Markets:--’twill be a pretty civil spiteful Compliment, and no doubt well taken;--come, I’ll convince ye, Sir. [_Goes and pulls_ Philippa. --Harkye, thou kind Help meet for Man--thou gentle Child of Night--what is the Price of a Night or two ot Pleasure with yonder Lady--_Euphemia_, I mean, that Roman Curtezan-- _Fil_. Oh, Heavens! a Curtezan! _Phil_. Sure you’re a great Stranger in _Rome_, that cannot tell her Price. _Gal_. I am so; name it, prithee, here’s a young _English_ Purchaser-- Come forward, Man, and cheapen for your self-- [_Pulls him_. _Phil_. Oh, spare your pains, she wants no Customers.-- [_Flings away_. _Fil_. No, no, it cannot, must not be _Marcella_; She has too much Divinity about her, Not to defend her from all Imputation, Scandal wou’d die to hear her Name pronounc’d. _Phil_. Believe me, Madam, he knows you not; I over-heard all he said to that Cavalier, and find he’s much in love. _Mar_. Not know me, and in love! punish him, Heaven, for his Falshood: but I’ll contribute to deceive him on, and ruin him with Perjury. _Fil_. I am not yet convinc’d, I’ll try her farther. [_Goes to her bowing_.]--But, Madam, is that heavenly Beauty purchasable? I’ll pay a Heart, rich with such Wounds and Flames-- _Gal_. Not forgetting the Money too, good Lad, or your Wounds and Flames will be of little Use. [Gal. _goes to_ Cornelia. _Mar_. He tells you Truth, Sir, we are not like the Ladies of your Country, who tire out their Men with loving upon the square, Heart for Heart, till it becomes as dull as Matrimony: to Women of our Profession there’s no Rhetorick like ready Money, nor Billet-deux like Bills of Exchange. _Fil_. Oh! that Heaven shou’d make two Persons so resembling, and yet such different Souls. [_Looks on her_.--’Sdeath, how she darts me through with every Look! But if she speak, she heals the Wound again. _Enter_ Octavio, _with Followers_. _Oct_. Hah, my Rival _Fillamour_ here! fall on--draw, Sir,--and say, I gave you one Advantage more, and fought thee fairly.