_Bel_. No, I am not in humour for a Wench-- By Heaven, I hate the Sex. All but divine _Celinda_, Appear strange Monsters to my Eyes and Thoughts. Sir _Tim_. What, art Italianiz’d, and lovest thy own Sex? _Bel_. I’m for any thing that’s out of the common Road of Sin; I love a Man that will be damn’d for something: to creep by slow degrees to Hell, as if he were afraid the World shou’d see which way he went, I scorn it, ‘tis like a Conventicler--No, give me a Man, who to be certain of’s Damnation, will break a solemn Vow to a contracted Maid. Sir _Tim_. Ha, ha, ha, I thought thou would’st have said at least--had murder’d his Father, or ravish’d his Mother--Break a Vow, quoth ye--by Fortune, I have broke a thousand. _Bel_. Well said, my Boy! A Man of Honour! And will be ready whene’er the Devil calls for thee--So--ho--more Wine, more Wine, and Dice. _Enter a Servant with Dice and Wine_. Come, Sir, let me-- [_Throws and loses_. Sir _Tim_. What will you set me, Sir? _Bel_. Cater-tray--a hundred Guineas--oh, damn the Dice--’tis mine--come, a full Glass--Damnation to my Uncle. Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, I’ll do thee reason--give me the Glass, and, _Sham_, to thee--Confusion to the musty Lord. _Bel_. So--now I’m like my self, profanely wicked. A little room for Life--but such a Life As Hell it self shall wonder at--I’ll have a care To do no one good deed in the whole course on’t, Lest that shou’d save my Soul in spite of Vow-breach. --I will not die--that Peace my Sins deserve not. I’ll live and let my Tyrant Uncle see The sad effects of Perjury, and forc’d Marriage. --Surely the Pow’rs above envy’d my Bliss; Marrying _Celinda_, I had been an Angel, So truly blest, and good. [_Weeps_. Sir _Tim_. Why, how now, _Frank_--by Fortune, the Rogue is Maudlin--So, ho, ho, so ho. _Bel_. The matter? Sir _Tim_. Oh, art awake--What a Devil ail’st thou, _Frank_? _Bel_. A Wench, or any thing--come, let’s drink a round. _Sham_. They’re come as wisht for. _Enter_ Flauntit, Driver, Doll _and_ Jenny _mask’d_. _Bel_. Oh, damn ‘em! What shall I do? Yet it would look like Virtue to avoid ‘em. No, I must venture on--Ladies, y’are welcome. Sir _Tim_. How, the Women?--Hold, hold, _Bellmour_, let me choose too-- Come, come, unmask, and shew your pretty Faces. _Flaunt_. How, Sir _Timothy_! What Devil ow’d me a spite. [_Aside_. Sir _Tim_. Come, unmask, I say: a willing Wench would have shew’d all in half this time. _Flaunt_. Wou’d she so, Impudence! [_Pulls off her Mask_. Sir _Tim_. How, my _Betty_! _Flaunt_. This is the Trade you drive, you eternal Fop, when I sit at home expecting you Night after Night. Sir _Tim_. Nay, dear Betty! _Flaunt_. ‘Tis here you spend that which shou’d buy me Points and Petticoats, whilst I go like no body’s Mistress; I’d as live be your Wife at this rate, so I had: and I’m in no small danger of getting the foul Disease by your Leudness.