Blunt. I find the Devil will not lose so hopeful a Sinner. Hold, hold, Captain, have you no Regard to your own Soul? ’dsheartlikins, ’tis a Woman, a very errant Woman.
Aria. Your Friend informs you right, Sir, I am a Woman.
Will. Ay, Child, or I were a lost Man—therefore, dear lovely Creature—
Aria. How can you tell, Sir?
Will. Oh, I have naturally a large Faith, Child, and thou’st a promising Form, a tempting Motion, clean Limbs, well drest, and a most damnable inviting Air.
Aria. I am not to be sold, nor fond of Praise I merit not.
Will. How, not to be sold too! By this light, Child, thou speakest like a Cherubim, I have not heard so obliging a Sound from the Mouth of Woman-kind this many a Day—I find we must be better acquainted, my Dear.
Aria. Your Reason, good familiar Sir, I see no such Necessity.
Will. Child, you are mistaken, I am in great Necessity; for first I love thee—desperately—have I not damn’d my Soul already for thee, and wouldst thou be so wicked to refuse a little Consolation to my Body? Then secondly, I see thou art frank and good-natur’d, and wilt do Reason gratis.
Aria. How prove ye that, good Mr. Philospher?