A Pox of Love and Woman-kind, [Sings.
And all the Fops adore ’em.
How it’s, Cuz—then slap, on goes the Beaver, which being cock’d, you bear up briskly, with the second Part to the same Tune—Harkye, Sir, let me advise you to pack up your Trumpery and be gone, your honourable Love, your matrimonial Foppery, with your other Trinkets thereunto belonging; or I shall talk aloud, and let your Uncle hear you.
Beau. Sure she cannot know I love La Nuche. [Aside.] The Devil take me, spoil’d! What Rascal has inveigled thee? What lying fawning Coward has abus’d thee? When fell you into this Leudness? Pox, thou art hardly worth the loving now, that canst be such a Fool, to wish me chaste, or love me for that Virtue; or that wouldst have me a ceremonious Whelp, one that makes handsom Legs to Knights without laughing, or with a sneaking modest Squirish Countenance; assure you, I have my Maidenhead. A Curse upon thee, the very thought of Wife has made thee formal.
Aria. I must dissemble, or he’ll stay all day to make his peace again—why, have you ne’er—a Mistress then?
Beau. A hundred, by this day, as many as I like, they are my Mirth, the business of my loose and wanton Hours; but thou art my Devotion, the grave, the solemn Pleasure of my Soul—Pox, would I were handsomly rid of thee too. [Aside.] —Come, I have business—send me pleas’d away.
Aria. Would to Heaven thou wert gone; [Aside.] You’re going to some Woman now.
Beau. Oh damn the Sex, I hate ’em all—but thee—farewell, my pretty jealous-sullen-Fool. [Goes out.
Aria. Farewel, believing Coxcomb. [Enter Lucia.
Lucia. Madam, the Clothes are ready in your Chamber.