Belv. Don’t prophane—the Maid is nicely virtuous.
Will. Who pox, then she’s fit for nothing but a Husband; let her e’en go, Colonel.
Fred. Peace, she’s the Colonel’s Mistress, Sir.
Will. Let her be the Devil; if she be thy Mistress, I’ll serve her—name the way.
Belv. Read here this Postscript. [Gives him a Letter.
Will. [Reads.] At Ten at night—at the Garden-Gate—of which, if I cannot get the Key, I will contrive a way over the Wall—come attended with a Friend or two.—Kind heart, if we three cannot weave a String to let her down a Garden-Wall,’twere pity but the Hangman wove one for us all.
Fred. Let her alone for that: your Woman’s Wit, your fair kind Woman, will out-trick a Brother or a Jew, and contrive like a Jesuit in Chains—but see, Ned Blunt is stoln out after the Lure of a Damsel. [Ex. Blunt and Lucet.
Belv. So he’ll scarce find his way home again, unless we get him cry’d by the Bell-man in the Market-place, and ’twou’d sound prettily—a lost English Boy of Thirty.
Fred. I hope ’tis some common crafty Sinner, one that will fit him; it may be she’ll sell him for Peru, the Rogue’s sturdy and would work well in a Mine; at least I hope she’ll dress him for our Mirth; cheat him of all, then have him well-favour’dly bang’d, and turn’d out naked at Midnight.
Will. Prithee what Humour is he of, that you wish him so well?