Belv. Neither.
Fred. I can’t divine the Cause then; unless the old Cause, the want of Mony.
Blunt. And another old Cause, the want of a Wench— Wou’d not that revive you?
Belv. You’re mistaken, Ned.
Blunt Nay, ’Sheartlikins, then thou art past Cure.
Fred. I have found it out; thou hast renew’d thy Acquaintance with the Lady that cost thee so many Sighs at the Siege of Pampelona—pox on’t, what d’ye call her—her Brother’s a noble Spaniard—Nephew to the dead General—Florinda—ay, Florinda—And will nothing serve thy turn but that damn’d virtuous Woman, whom on my Conscience thou lov’st in spite too, because thou seest little or no possibility of gaining her?
Belv. Thou art mistaken, I have Interest enough in that lovely Virgin’s Heart, to make me proud and vain, were it not abated by the Severity of a Brother, who perceiving my Happiness—
Fred. Has civilly forbid thee the House?
Belv. ’Tis so, to make way for a powerful Rival, the Vice-Roy’s Son, who has the advantage of me, in being a Man of Fortune, a Spaniard, and her Brother’s Friend; which gives him liberty to make his Court, whilst I have recourse only to Letters, and distant Looks from her Window, which are as soft and kind [as those which Heav’n sends down on Penitents.]
Blunt. Hey day! ’Sheartlikins, Simile! by this Light the Man is quite spoil’d—Frederick, what the Devil are we made of, that we cannot be thus concern’d for a Wench?—’Sheartlikins, our Cupids are like the Cooks of the Camp, they can roast or boil a Woman, but they have none of the fine Tricks to set ’em off, no [Hogoes] to make the Sauce pleasant, and the Stomach sharp.