_Dor._ And for the women in the boxes, you'd never pity them when 'twas in your power. _Har._ They say 'tis pity but all that deal with common women should be served so. _Dor._ Nay, I dare swear they won't admit you to play at cards with them, go to plays with 'em, or do the little duties which other shadows of men are wont to do for 'em. _Horn._ What do you call shadows of men? _Dor._ Half-men. _Horn._ What, boys? _Dor._ Ay, your old boys, old _beaux garçons_, who, like superannuated stallions, are suffered to run, feed, and whinny with the mares as long as they live, though they can do nothing else. _Horn._ Well, a pox on love and wenching! Women serve but to keep a man from better company. Though I can't enjoy them, I shall you the more. Good fellowship and friendship are lasting, rational, and manly pleasures. _Har._ For all that, give me some of those pleasures you call effeminate too; they help to relish one another. _Horn._ They disturb one another. _Har._ No, mistresses are like books. If you pore upon them too much, they doze you, and make you unfit for company; but if used discreetly, you are the fitter for conversation by 'em. _Dor._ A mistress should be like a little country retreat near the town; not to dwell in constantly, but only for a night and away, to taste the town the better when a man returns. _Horn._ I tell you, 'tis as hard to be a good fellow, a good friend, and a lover of women, as 'tis to be a good fellow, a good friend, and a lover of money. You cannot follow both, then choose your side. Wine gives you liberty, love takes it away. _Dor._ Gad, he's in the right on't. _Horn._ Wine gives you joy; love, grief and tortures, besides surgeons. Wine makes us witty; love, only sots. Wine makes us sleep; love breaks it. _Dor._ By the world he has reason, Harcourt. _Horn._ Wine makes-- _Dor._ Ay, wine makes us--makes us princes; love makes us beggars, poor rogues, egad--and wine-- _Horn._ So, there's one converted.--No, no, love and wine, oil and vinegar. _Har._ I grant it; love will still be uppermost. _Horn._ Come, for my part, I will have only those glorious manly pleasures of being very drunk and very slovenly. _Enter_ Boy. _Boy._ Mr. Sparkish is below, sir. [_Exit._ _Har._ What, my dear friend! a rogue that is fond of me only, I think, for abusing him. _Dor._ No, he can no more think the men laugh at him than that women jilt him; his opinion of himself is so good. _Horn._ Well, there's another pleasure by drinking I thought not of,--I shall lose his acquaintance, because he cannot drink: and you know 'tis a very hard thing to be rid of him; for he's one of those nauseous offerers at wit, who, like the worst fiddlers, run themselves into all companies. _Har._ One that, by being in the company of men of sense, would pass for one.