_Gal_. No Curtezan! hast thou deceiv’d me then? Tell me, thou wicked honest cozening Beauty, Why didst thou draw me in, with such a fair Pretence, Why such a tempting Preface to invite, And the whole Piece so useless and unedifying? --Heavens! not a Curtezan! Why from thy Window didst thou take my Vows, And make such kind Returns? Oh, damn your Quality: What honest Whore but wou’d have scorn’d thy Cunning? _Cor_. I make ye kind Returns? _Gal_. Persuade me out of that too; ‘twill be like ye. _Cor_. By all my Wishes I never held Discourse with you--but this Evening, since I first saw your Face. _Gal_. Oh, the Impudence of Honesty and Quality in Woman! A plague upon ‘em both, they have undone me! Bear witness, oh thou gentle Queen of Night, Goddess of Shades, ador’d by Lovers most; How oft under thy Covert she has damn’d her self, With feigned Love to me! [_In Passion_. _Cor_. Heavens! this is Impudence: that Power I call to witness too, how damnably thou injur’st me. [_Angry_. _Gal_. You never from your Window talk’d of Love to me? _Cor_. Never. _Gal_. So, nor you’re no Curtezan? _Cor_. No, by my Life. _Gal_. So, nor do intend to be, by all that’s good? _Cor_. By all that’s good, never. _Gal_. So, and you are real honest, and of Quality? _Cor_. Or may I still be wretched. _Gal_. So, then farewel Honesty and Quality--’Sdeath, what a Night, what Hopes, and what a Mistress, have I all lost for Honesty and Quality! [_Offers to go_. _Cor_. Stay.-- _Gal_. I will be rack’d first, let go thy hold! [_In fury_. --Unless thou wou’dst repent.-- [_In a soft tone_. _Cor_. I cannot of my fixt Resolves for Virtue! --But if you could but--love me--honourably-- For I assum’d this Habit and this Dress-- _Gal_. To cheat me of my Heart the readiest way: And now, like gaming Rooks, unwilling to give o’er till you have hook’d in my last stake, my Body too, you cozen me with Honesty.--Oh, damn the Dice--I’ll have no more on’t, I, the Game’s too deep for me, unless you play’d upon the square, or I could cheat like you.-- Farewel, Quality-- [_Goes out_. _Cor_. He’s gone; _Philippa_, run and fetch him back; I have but this short Night allow’d for Liberty; Perhaps to morrow I may be a Slave. [_Ex_. Phil. --Now o’ my Conscience there never came good of this troublesome Virtue-- hang’t, I was too serious; but a Devil on’t, he looks so charmingly--and was so very pressing, I durst trust my gay Humour and good Nature no farther. [_She walks about, Sir_ Signal _peeps and then comes out_. Sir _Sig_. He’s gone!--so, ha, ha, ha. As I hope to breathe, Madam, you have nost neatly dispatcht him; poor fool--to compare his Wit and his Person to mine.-- _Cor_. Hah, the Coxcomb here still.-- Sir _Sig_. Well, this Countenance of mine never fail’d me yet.