Will. Ay faith, and nothing remains with me but the sad Remembrance—not so much as the least Part of her hundred thousand Crowns; [Brussels ]that inchanted Court has eas’d me of that Grief, where our Heroes act [Tantalus better than ever Ovid describ’d him], condemn’d daily to see an Apparition of Meat, Food in Vision only. Faith, I had Bowels, was good-natur’d, and lent upon the publick Faith as far as ’twill go—But come, let’s leave this mortifying Discourse, and tell me how the price of Pleasure goes.
Beau. At the old Rates still; he that gives most is happiest, some few there are for Love!
Will. Ah, one of the last, dear Beaumond; and if a Heart or Sword can purchase her, I’ll bid as fair as the best. Damn it, I hate a Whore that asks me Mony.
Beau. Yet I have known thee venture all thy Stock for a new Woman.
Will. Ay, such a Fool I was in my dull Days of Constancy, but I am now for Change, (and should I pay as often,’twould undo me)—for Change, my Dear, of Place, Clothes, Wine, and Women. Variety is the Soul of Pleasure, a Good unknown; and we want Faith to find it.
Beau. Thou wouldst renounce that fond Opinion, Willmore, didst thou see a Beauty here in Town, whose Charms have Power to fix inconstant Nature or Fortune were she tottering on her Wheel.
Will. Her Name, my Dear, her Name?
Beau. I would not breathe it even in my Complaints, lest amorous Winds should bear it o’er the World, and make Mankind her Slaves;
[But that it is a Name too cheaply known,]
And she that owns it may be as cheaply purchas’d.