Sir _Cau_. I doubt you’ll find it to my Grief-- [_Aside_. --But I think ‘tis all one to thee, thou car’st not for my Complement; no, thou’dst rather have a young Fellow. L. _Ful_. I am not us’d to flatter much; if forty Years were taken from your Age, ‘twou’d render you something more agreeable to my Bed, I must confess. Sir _Cau_. Ay, ay, no doubt on’t. L. _Ful_. Yet you may take my word without an Oath, Were you as old as Time, and I were young and gay As _April_ Flowers, which all are fond to gather; My Beauties all should wither in the Shade, E’er I’d be worn in a dishonest Bosom. Sir _Cau_. Ay, but you’re wondrous free methinks, sometimes, which gives shreud suspicions. L. _Ful_. What, because I cannot simper, look demure, and justify my Honour, when none questions it? --Cry fie, and out upon the naughty Women, Because they please themselves--and so wou’d I. Sir _Cau_. How, wou’d, what cuckold me? L. _Ful_. Yes, if it pleas’d me better than Vertue, Sir. But I’ll not change my Freedom and my Humour, To purchase the dull Fame of being honest. Sir _Cau_. Ay, but the World, the World-- L. _Ful_. I value not the Censures of the Croud. Sir _Cau_. But I am old. L. _Ful_. That’s your fault, Sir, not mine. Sir _Cau_. But being so, if I shou’d be good-natur’d, and give thee leave to love discreetly-- L. _Ful_. I’d do’t without your leave, Sir. Sir _Cau_. Do’t--what, cuckold me? L. _Ful_. No, love discreetly, Sir, love as I ought, love honestly. Sir _Cau_. What, in love with any body, but your own Husband? L. _Ful_. Yes. Sir _Cau_. Yes, quoth a--is that your loving as you ought? L. _Ful_. We cannot help our Inclinations, Sir, No more than Time, or Light from coming on-- But I can keep my Virtue, Sir, intire. Sir _Cau_. What, I’ll warrant, this is your first Love, _Gayman_? L. _Ful_. I’ll not deny that Truth, though even to you. Sir _Cau_. Why, in consideration of my Age, and your Youth, I’d bear a Conscience--provided you do things wisely. L. _Ful_. Do what thing, Sir? Sir _Cau_. You know what I mean-- L. _Ful_. Hah--I hope you wou’d not be a Cuckold, Sir. Sir _Cau_. Why--truly in a civil way--or so. L. _Ful_. There is but one way, Sir, to make me hate you; And that wou’d be tame suffering. Sir _Cau_. Nay, and she be thereabouts, there’s no discovering. L. _Ful_. But leave this fond discourse, and, if you must, Let us to Bed. Sir _Cau_. Ay, ay, I did but try your Virtue, mun--dost think I was in earnest? _Enter Servant_. _Serv_. Sir, here’s a Chest directed to your Worship. Sir _Cau_. Hum, ‘tis _Wasteall_--now does my heart fail me--A Chest say you--to me--so late;--I’ll warrant it comes from Sir _Nicholas Smuggle_--some prohibited Goods that he has stoln the Custom of, and cheated his Majesty--Well, he’s an honest Man, bring it in-- [_Exit Servant_. L. _Ful_. What, into my Apartment, Sir, a nasty Chest!