_Gal_. Cease, cunning false one, to excuse thy self, See here the Trophies of your shameful Choice, And of my Ruin, cruel--fair Deceiver! _Cor_. Deceiver, Sir, of whom? in what despairing minute did I swear to be a constant Mistress? to what dull whining Lover did I vow, and had the heart to break it? _Gal_. Or if thou hadst, I know of no such Dog as wou’d believe thee: No, thou art false to thy own Charms, and hast betray’d them To the possession of the vilest Wretch That ever Fortune curst with Happiness; False to thy Joys, false to thy Wit and Youth: All which thou’st damn’d with so much careful Industry To an eternal Fool, That all the Arts of Love can ne’er redeem thee. Sir _Sig_. Meaning me, meaning me. [_Peeping out of the Chimney, his Face blackt_. _Cor_. A Fool! what Indiscretion have you seen in me, shou’d make ye think I would choose a Witty man for a Lover, who perhaps loves out his Month in pure good Husbandry, and in that time does more Mischief than a hundred Fools. You conquer without Resistance, you treat without Pity, and triumph without Mercy: and when you are gone, the World crys--she had not Wit enough to keep him, when indeed you are not Fool enough to be kept! Thus we forfeit both our Liberties and Discretion with you villanous witty Men: for Wisdom is but good Success in things, and those that fail are Fools. _Gal_. Most gloriously disputed! You’re grown a Machivellian in your Art. _Cor_. Oh, necessary Maxims only, and the first Politicks we learn from Observation--I have known a Curtezan grown infamous, despis’d, decay’d, and ruin’d, in the Possession of you witty Men, who when she had the luck to break her Chains, and cast her Net for Fools, has liv’d in state, finer than Brides upon their Wedding-day, and more profuse than the young amorous Coxcomb that set her up an Idol. Sir _Sig_. Well argued of my side, I see the Baggage loves me! [_Peeping out with a Face more smutted_. _Gal_. And hast thou? Oh, but prithee jilt me on, And say thou hast not destin’d all thy Charms To such a wicked Use. Is that dear Face and Mouth for Slaves to kiss? Shall those bright Eyes be gaz’d upon, and serve But to reflect the Images of Fools? Sir _Sig_. That’s I still. [_Peeping more black_. _Gal_. Shall that soft tender Bosom be approacht By one who wants a Soul, to breathe in languishment At every Kiss that presses it? Sir _Sig_. Soul! what a pox care I for Soul--as long as my Person is so amiable? _Gal_. No, renounce that dull Discretion that undoes thee, Cunning is cheaply to be wise; leave it to those that have No other Powers to gain a Conquest by, It is below thy Charms. --Come swear, and be foresworn most damnably, Thou hast not yielded yet; say ‘twas intended only, And though thou ly’st, by Heaven, I must believe thee; --Say,--hast thou--given him--all? _Cor_. I’ve done as bad, we have discours’d th’ Affair, And ‘tis concluded on.--