Will. I am not for your turn, Child—Death, I shall lose my Mistress fooling here—I must be gone. [She holds him, he shakes his Head and sings.
No, no, I will not hire your Bed,
Nor Tenant to your Favours be;
I will not farm your White and Red,
You shall not let your Love to me:
I court a Mistress—not a Landlady. [bis.]
Beau. He’s in the right; and shall I waste my Youth and powerful Fortune on one who all this while has jilted me, seeing I was a lavish loving Fool?—No—this Soul and Body shall not be divided— [Gives her to Will.
Will. I am so much thy Friend, another time I might be drawn to take a bad Bargain off thy Hands—but I have other Business at present: wo’t do a kind thing, Harry,—lend me thy Aid to carry off my Woman to night? ’tis hard by in the Piazza, perhaps we may find Resistance.
Beau. My self and Sword are yours. I have a Chair waits below too, may do you Service.
Will. I thank ye—Madam—your Servant.