_Flaunt_. Oh, sweet Sir--wou’d my Knight were hang’d, so I were well rid of him now--Well, Sir, I swear you are the most agreeable Person-- _Bel_. Am I?--let us be more familiar then--I’ll kiss thy Hand, thy Breast, thy Lips--and-- _Flaunt_. All--you please, Sir-- _Bel_. A tractable Sinner! [_Offers to kiss her_. Faugh--how she smells--had I approach’d so near divine _Celinda_, what A natural Fragrancy had sent it self through all my ravisht Senses! [_Aside_. _Flaunt_. The Man’s extasy’d, sure, I shall take him. Come, Sir, you’re sad. _Bel_. As Angels fall’n from the Divine Abode, And now am lighted on a very Hell! --But this is not the way to thrive in Wickedness; I must rush on to Ruin--Come, fair Mistress, Will you not shew me some of your Arts of Love? For I am very apt to learn of Beauty--Gods-- What is’t I negotiate for?--a Woman! Making a Bargain to possess a Woman! Oh, never, never! _Flaunt_. The Man is in love, that’s certain--as I was saying, Sir-- _Bel_. Be gone, Repentance! Thou needless Goodness, Which if I follow, canst lead me to no Joys. Come, tell me the Price of all your Pleasures. Sir _Tim_. Look you, Mistress, I am but a Country Knight. Yet I shou’d be glad of your farther Acquaintance. --Pray, who may that Lady be-- _Driv_. Who, Mrs. Flauntit, Sir? Sir _Tim_. Ay, she: she’s tearing fine, by Fortune. _Driv_. I’ll assure you, Sir, she’s kept, and is a great Rarity, but to a Friend, or so-- Sir _Tim_. Hum--kept--pray, by whom? _Driv_. Why, a silly Knight, Sir, that-- Sir _Tim_. Ay, ay, silly indeed--a Pox upon her--a silly Knight, you say-- _Driv_. Ay, Sir, one she makes a very Ass of. Sir _Tim_. Ay, so methinks--but she’s kind, and will do reason for all him. _Driv_. To a Friend, a Man of Quality--or so. Sir _Tim_. Ay, she blinds the Knight. _Driv_. Alas, Sir, easily--he, poor Cully, thinks her a very Saint--but when he’s out of the way, she comes to me to pleasure a Friend. Sir _Tim_. But what if the Fool miss her? _Driv_. She cries Whore first, brings him upon his Knees for her Fault; and a piece of Plate, or a new Petticoat, makes his Peace again. Sir _Tim. Why--look you, Mistress, I am that Fop, that very silly Knight, and the rest that you speak of. _Driv_. How, Sir? then I’m undone, she’s the Upholder of my Calling, the very Grace of my Function. Sir _Tim_. Is she so? e’en keep her to your self then, I’ll have no more of her, by Fortune--I humbly thank you for your Intelligence, and the rest. Well--I see there’s not one honest Whore i’th’ Nation, by Fortune. _Enter_ Charles Bellmour, _and_ Trusty. Hark ye, Mistress, what was your Bus’ness here? _Flaunt_. To meet a Rogue!-- Sir _Tim_. And I to meet a Whore, and now we are well met. _Flaunt_. How, Sir?