Blunt. Ay, there was a Girl, the only she thing that could reconcile me to the Petticoats again after my Naples Adventure, when the Quean rob’d and stript me.
Will. Oh name not Hellena! She was a Saint to be ador’d on Holy-days.
Enter Beaumond.
Beau. Willmore! my careless wild inconstant—how is’t, my lucky Rover? [embracing.]
Will. My Life! my Soul! how glad am I to find thee in my Arms again—and well—When left you Paris? Paris, that City of Pottage and [Crab-Wine], swarming with Lacquies and [Philies], whose Government is carried on by most Hands, not most Voices—And prithee how does Belvile and his Lady?
Beau. I left ’em both in Health at St. Germains.
Will. Faith, I have wisht my self with ye at the old Temple of Bacchus at St. Clou, to sacrifice a Bottle and a Damsel to his Deity.
Beau. My constant Place of Worship whilst there, tho for want of new Saints my Zeal grew something cold, which I was ever fain to supply with a Bottle, the old Remedy when Phyllis is sullen and absent.
Will. Now thou talk’st of Phillis prithee, dear Harry, what Women hast in store?
Beau. I’ll tell thee; but first inform me whom these two Sparks are.