Free. Thou art mistaken.—But, didst thou mind her next the Pulpit?
Lov. A Plague upon the whole Congregation: I minded nothing but how to fight the Lord’s Battle with that damn’d sham Parson, whom I had a mind to beat.
Free. My Lady Desbro is not of that Persuasion, but [an errant Heroick] in her Heart, and feigns it only to have the better occasion to serve the Royal Party. I knew her, and lov’d her before she married.
Lov. She may chance then to be sav’d.
Free. Come, I’ll have thee bear up briskly to some one of ’em, it may redeem thy Sequestration; which, now thou see’st no hopes of compounding, puts thee out of Patience.
Lov. Let ’em take it, and the Devil do ’em Good with it; I scorn it should be said I have a Foot of Land in this ungrateful and accursed Island; I’d rather beg where Laws are obey’d, and Justice perform’d, than be powerful where Rogues and base-born Rascals rule the roast.
Free. But suppose now, dear Loveless, that one of the Wives of these Pageant Lords should fall in love with thee, and get thy Estate again, or pay the double for’t?
Lov. I wou’d refuse it.
Free. And this for a little dissembl’d Love, a little Drudgery—
Lov. Not a Night, by Heaven—not an Hour—no, not a single Kiss. I’d rather make love to an Incubus.