Belv. By all means use no Violence here.
Will. Death! just as I was going to be damnably in love, to have her led off! I could pluck that Rose out-of his Hand, and even kiss the Bed, the Bush it grew in.
Fred. No Friend to Love like a long Voyage at Sea.
Blunt. Except a Nunnery, Fred.
Will. Death! but will they not be kind, quickly be kind? Thou know’st I’m no tame Sigher, but a rampant Lion of the Forest.
Two Men drest all over with Horns of several sorts, making Grimaces at one another, with Papers pinn’d on their Backs, advance from the farther end of the Scene.
Belv. Oh the fantastical Rogues, how they are dress’d! ’tis a Satir against the whole Sex.
Will. Is this a Fruit that grows in this warm Country?
Belv. Yes: ’Tis pretty to see these Italian start, swell, and stab at the Word Cuckold, and yet stumble at Horns on every Threshold.
Will. See what’s on their Back—Flowers for every Night. [Reads.
—Ah Rogue! And more sweet than Roses of ev’ry Month! This is a Gardiner of Adam’s own breeding. [They dance.