Will. But here, behold the Life and Soul of Man! this is the amorous Pouder, which Venus made and gave the God of Love, which made him first a Deity; you talk of Arrows, Bow, and killing Darts; Fables, poetical Fictions, and no more: ’tis this alone that wounds and fires the Heart, makes Women kind, and equals Men to Gods; ’tis this that makes your great Lady doat on the ill-favour’d Fop; your great Man be jilted by his little Mistress, the Judge cajol’d by his Semstress, and your Politican by his Comedian; your young Lady doat on her decrepid Husband, your Chaplain on my Lady’s Waiting-Woman, and the young Squire on the Landry-Maid—In fine, Messieurs,
’Tis this that cures the Lover’s Pain,
And Celia of her cold Disdain.
Feth. A most devilish Fellow this!
Blunt. Hold, shartlikins, Fetherfool, let’s have a Dose or two of this Pouder for quick Dispatch with our Monsters.
Feth. Why Pox, Man, Jugg my Giant would swallow a whole Cart-Load before ’twould operate.
Blunt. No hurt in trying a Paper or two however.
Car. A most admirable Receit, I shall have need on’t.
Will. I need say nothing of my divine Baths of Reformation, nor the wonders of the old Oracle of the Box, which resolves all Questions, my Bills sufficiently declare their Virtue. [Sits down. They buy.
Enter Petronella Elenora carried in a Chair, dress’d like a Girl of Fifteen.