Beau. Not so much as lying with him, whose reverend Age wou’d make it look like Incest.
Aria. But to marry thee—would be a Tyranny from whence there’s no Appeal: A drinking whoring Husband! ’tis the Devil—
Beau. You are deceiv’d, if you think Don Carlo more chaste than I; only duller, and more a Miser, one that fears his Flesh more, and loves his Money better.—Then to be condemn’d to lie with him—oh, who would not rejoice to meet a Woollen-Waistcoat, and knit Night-Cap without a Lining, a Shirt so nasty, a cleanly Ghost would not appear in’t at the latter Day? then the compound of nasty Smells about him, stinking Breath, Mustachoes stuft with villainous [snush], Tobacco, and hollow Teeth: thus prepar’d for Delight, you meet in Bed, where you may lie and sigh whole Nights away, he snores it out till Morning, and then rises to his sordid business.
Aria. All this frights me not: ’tis still much better than a keeping Husband, whom neither Beauty nor Honour in a Wife can oblige.
Beau. Oh, you know not the good-nature of a Man of Wit, at least I shall bear a Conscience, and do thee reason, which Heaven denies to old Carlo, were he willing.
Aria. Oh, he talks as high, and thinks as well of himself as any young Coxcomb of ye all.
Beau. He has reason, for if his Faith were no better than his Works, he’d be damn’d.
Aria. Death, who wou’d marry, who wou’d be chaffer’d thus, and sold to Slavery? I’d rather buy a Friend at any Price that I could love and trust.
Beau. Ay, could we but drive on such a Bargain.
Aria. You should not be the Man; You have a Mistress, Sir, that has your Heart, and all your softer Hours: I know’t, and if I were so wretched as to marry thee, must see my Fortune lavisht out on her; her Coaches, Dress, and Equipage exceed mine by far: Possess she all the day thy Hours of Mirth, good Humour and Expence, thy Smiles, thy Kisses, and thy Charms of Wit. Oh how you talk and look when in her Presence! but when with me,