Luc. Your Money, Sir: and if he be not cozen’d, say a Spanish Woman has neither Wit nor Invention upon Occasion.
Blunt. Sheartlikins, how I shall love and honour thee for’t—here’s earnest— [Talks to her with Joy and Grimace.
Aria. But who was that you entertain’d at Church but now?
Will. Faith, one, who for her Beauty merits that glorious Title she wears, it was—a Whore, Child.
Aria. That’s but a scurvy Name; yet, if I’m not mistaken in those false Eyes of yours, they look with longing Love upon that—Whore, Child.
Will. Thou are i’th’ right, and by this hand, my Soul was full as wishing as my Eyes: but a Pox on’t, you Women have all a certain Jargon, or Gibberish, peculiar to your selves; of Value, Rate, Present, Interest, Settlement, Advantage, Price, Maintenance, and the Devil and all of Fopperies, which in plain Terms signify ready Money, by way of Fine before Entrance; so that an honest well-meaning Merchant of Love finds no Credit amongst ye, without his Bill of Lading.
Aria. We are not all so cruel—but the Devil on’t is, your good-natur’d Heart is likely accompanied with an ill Face and worse Wit.
Will. Faith, Child, a ready Dish when a Man’s Stomach is up, is better than a tedious Feast. I never saw any Man yet cut my piece; some are for Beauty, some are for Wit, and some for the Secret, but I for all, so it be in a kind Girl: and for Wit in Woman, so she say pretty fond things, we understand; tho true or false, no matter.
Aria. Give the Devil his due, you are a very conscientious Lover: I love a Man that scorns to impose dull Truth and Constancy on a Mistress.
Will. Constancy, that current Coin with Fools! No, Child, Heaven keep that Curse from our Doors.