Will. A virtuous Mistress! Death, what a thing thou hast found out for me! why what the Devil should I do with a virtuous Woman?—a fort of ill-natur’d Creatures, that take a Pride to torment a Lover. Virtue is but an Infirmity in Women, a Disease that renders even the handsom ungrateful; whilst the ill-favour’d, for want of Solicitations and Address, only fancy themselves so.—I have lain with a Woman of Quality, who has all the while been railing at Whores.
Ang. I will not answer for your Mistress’s Virtue,
Tho she be young enough to know no Guilt:
And I could wish you would persuade my Heart,
’Twas the two hundred thousand Crowns you courted.
Will. Two hundred thousand Crowns! what Story’s this?—what Trick?—what Woman?—ha.
Ang. How strange you make it! have you forgot the Creature you entertain’d on the Piazza last night?
Will. Ha, my Gipsy worth two hundred thousand Crowns!—oh how I long to be with her—pox, I knew she was of Quality. [Aside.
Ang. False Man, I see my Ruin in thy Face.
How many vows you breath’d upon my Bosom,