Fred. Now the Game begins.
Will. Fine pretty Creatures! may a stranger have leave to look and love?—What’s here—Roses for every Month! [Reads the Paper.
Blunt. Roses for every Month! what means that?
Belv. They are, or wou’d have you think they’re Curtezans, who herein Naples are to be hir’d by the Month.
Will. Kind and obliging to inform us—Pray where do these Roses grow? I would fain plant some of ’em in a Bed of mine.
Wom. Beware such Roses, Sir.
Will. A Pox of fear: I’ll be bak’d with thee between a pair of Sheets, and that’s thy proper Still, so I might but strow such Roses over me and under me—Fair one, wou’d you wou’d give me leave to gather at your Bush this idle Month, I wou’d go near to make some Body smell of it all the Year after.
Belv. And thou hast need of such a Remedy, for thou stinkest of Tar and Rope-ends, like a Dock or Pesthouse.
[The Woman puts herself into the Hands of a Man, and Exit.
Will. Nay, nay, you shall not leave me so.