L. _Ful_. Give you Joy, my dear _Leticia_! I find, Sir, you were resolved for Youth, Wit and Beauty. Sir _Feeb_. Ay, ay, Madam, to the Comfort of many a hoping Coxcomb: but _Lette_,--Rogue _Lette_--thou wo’t not make me free o’th’ City a second time, wo’t thou entice the Rogues with the Twire and the wanton Leer --the amorous Simper that cries, come, kiss me--then the pretty round Lips are pouted out--he, Rogue, how I long to be at ‘em!--well, she shall never go to Church more, that she shall not. L. _Ful_. How, Sir, not to Church, the chiefest Recreation of a City Lady? Sir _Feeb_. That’s all one, Madam, that tricking and dressing, and prinking and patching, is not your Devotion to Heaven, but to the young Knaves that are lick’d and comb’d and are minding you more than the Parson--ods bobs, there are more Cuckolds destin’d in the Church, than are made out of it. Sir _Cau_. Hah, ha, ha, he tickles ye, i’faith, Ladies. [_To his Lady_. _Bel_. Not one chance look this way--and yet I can forgive her lovely Eyes, Because they look not pleas’d with all this Ceremony; And yet methinks some sympathy in Love Might this way glance their Beams--I cannot hold-- Sir, is this fair Lady my Aunt? Sir _Feeb_. Oh, _Francis_! Come hither, _Francis_. _Lette_, here’s a young Rogue has a mind to kiss thee. [_Puts them together, she starts back_. --Nay, start not, he’s my own Flesh and Blood, My Nephew--Baby--look, look how the young Rogues stare at one another; like will to like, I see that. _Let_. There’s something in his Face so like my _Bellmour_, it calls my Blushes up, and leaves my Heart defenceless. _Enter_ Ralph. _Ralph_. Sir, Dinner’s on the Table. Sir _Feeb_. Come, come--let’s in then--Gentlemen and Ladies, And share to day my Pleasures and Delight, But-- Adds bobs, they must be all mine own at Night. [_Exeunt_. ACT II. SCENE I. Gayman’s _Lodging_. _Enter _Gayman_ in a Night-Cap, and an old Campaign Coat tied about him, very melancholy_. _Gay_. Curse on my Birth! Curse on my faithless Fortune! Curse on my Stars, and curst be all--but Love! That dear, that charming Sin, though t’have pull’d Innumerable Mischiefs on my head, I have not, nor I cannot find Repentance for. Nor let me die despis’d, upbraided, poor: Let Fortune, Friends and all abandon me-- But let me hold thee, thou soft smiling God, Close to my heart while Life continues there. Till the last pantings of my vital Blood, Nay, the last spark of Life and Fire be Love’s! _Enter_ Rag. --How now, _Rag_, what’s a Clock? _Rag_. My Belly can inform you better than my Tongue. _Gay_. Why, you gormandizing Vermin you, what have you done with the Three pence I gave you a fortnight ago. _Rag_. Alas, Sir, that’s all gone long since.