Will. Wise Mr. Justice, give me your Warrant, and if I do not prove ’em Whores, whip me.
Feth. Prithee hold thy scandalous blasphemous Tongue, as if I did not know Whores from Persons of Quality.
Will. Will you believe me when you lie with her? for thou’rt a rich Ass, and may’st do it.
Feth. Whores—ha, ha—
Will. ’Tis strange Logick now, because your Band is better that mine, I must not know a Whore better than you.
Blunt. If this be a Whore, as thou say’st, I understand nothing—by this Light such a Wench would pass for a Person of Quality in London.
Feth. Few Ladies [have I] seen at a Sheriff’s Feast have better Faces, or worn so good Clothes; and by the Lord Harry, if these be of the gentle Craft, I’d not give a Real for an honest Women for my use.
Will. Come follow me into the Church, for thither I am sure they’re gone: And I will let you see what a wretched thing you had been had you lived seven Years longer in Surrey, stew’d in Ale and Beef-broth.
Feth. O dear Willmore, name not those savory things, there’s no jesting with my Stomach; it sleeps now, but if it wakes, wo be to your Shares at the Ordinary.
Blunt. I’ll say that for Fetherfool, if his Heart were but half so good as his Stomach, he were a brave Fellow. [Aside, Exeunt.