Aria. I like not this so well, ’tis a trick to make her jealous.
Will. Their Hands too have their Beauties, whose very mark finds credit and respect, their Bills are current o’er the Universe; besides these, you shall see waiting at my Door, four Footmen, a Velvet Coach, with Six Flanders Beauties more: And are not these most comely Virtues in a Soldier’s Wife, in this most wicked peaceable Age?
Luc. He’s poor too, there’s another comfort. [Aside.
Aria. The most incouraging one I have met with yet.
Will. Pox on’t, [I grow weary] of this virtuous Poverty. There goes a gallant Fellow, says one, but gives him not an Onion; the Women too, faith, ’tis a handsom Gentleman, but the Devil a Kiss he gets gratis.
Aria. Oh, how I long to undeceive him of that Error.
La Nu. He speaks not of me; [sure he knows me not]. [Aside.
Will. —No, Child, Money speaks sense in a Language all Nations understand, ’tis Beauty, Wit, Courage, Honour, and undisputable Reason—see the virtue of a Wager, that new philosophical way lately found out of deciding all hard Questions—Socrates, without ready Money to lay down, must yield.
Aria. Well, I must have this gallant Fellow. [Aside.
La Nu. Sure he has forgot this trival thing.