Mrs. _Driv_. Look ye, Mrs. _Jenny_, I know you, and I know Mrs. _Flauntit_; but ‘tis not Beauty or Wit that takes now-a-days; the Age is altered since I took upon me this genteel Occupation: but ‘tis a fine Petticoat, right Points, and clean Garnitures, that does me Credit, and takes the Gallant, though on a stale Woman. And again, Mrs. _Jenny_, she’s kept, and Men love as much for Malice, as for Lechery, as they call it. Oh, ‘tis a great Mover to Joy, as they say, to have a Woman that’s kept. _Jen_. Well! Be it so, we may arrive to that excellent Degree of Cracking, to be kept too one day. Mrs. _Driv_. Well, well, get your selves in order to go up to the Gentlemen. _Flaunt_. _Driver_, what art thou talking to those poor Creatures? Lord, how they stink of Paint and Pox, faugh-- Mrs. _Driv_. They were only complaining that you that were kept, shou’d intrude upon the Privileges of the Commoners. _Flaunt_. Lord, they think there are such Joys in Keeping, when I vow, _Driver_, after a while, a Miss has as painful a Life as a Wife; our Men drink, stay out late, and whore, like any Husbands. _Driv_. But I hope in the Lord, Mrs. _Flauntit_, yours is no such Man; I never saw him, but I have heard he’s under decent Correction. _Flaunt_. Thou art mistaken, _Driver_, I can keep him within no moderate Bounds without Blows; but for his filthy Custom of Wenching, I have almost broke him of that--but prithee, _Driver_, who are these Gentlemen? _Driv_. Truly, I know not; but they are young, and fine as Princes: two of ‘em were disguis’d in masking Habits last Night, but they have sent ’.m away this Morning, and they are free as Emperors--One of ‘em has lost a Thousand Pound at Play, and never repin’d at it; one’s a Knight, and I believe his Courage is cool’d, for he has ferreted my Maids over and over to Night--But ‘tis the fine, young, handsom Squire that I design you for. _Flaunt_. No matter for his Handsomness, let me have him that has most Money. [_Exeunt_. SCENE III. _Another Chamber in the Brothel, a Table with Box and Dice_. _Enter_ Bellmour, _Sir_ Timothy, Sham _and_ Sharp. _Bel_. Damn it, give us more Wine. [_Drinks_. Where stands the Box and Dice?--Why, _Sham_. _Sham_. Faith, Sir, Your Luck’s so bad, I han’t the Conscience to play longer--Sir _Timothy_ and you play off a hundred Guineas, and see if Luck will turn. _Bel_. Do you take me for a Country Squire, whose Reputation will be crackt at the loss of a petty Thousand? You have my Note for it to my Goldsmith. _Sham_. ‘Tis sufficient if it were for ten thousand. _Bel_. Why, Sir _Timothy_--Pox on’t, thou’rt dull, we are not half debauch’d and leud enough, give us more Wine. Sir _Tim_. Faith, _Frank_, I’m a little maukish with sitting up all Night, and want a small refreshment this Morning--Did we not send for Whores?