Ang. Fear not, Sir, all I have to wound with, is my Eyes.
Blunt. Let him go, ’Sheartlikins, I believe the Gentle-woman means well.
Belv. Well, take thy Fortune, we’ll expect you in the next Street.—Farewell Fool,—farewell—
Will. B’ye Colonel— [Goes in.
Fred. The Rogue’s stark mad for a Wench. [Exeunt.
Enter Willmore, Angelica, and Moretta.
Ang. Insolent Sir, how durst you pull down my Picture?
Will. Rather, how durst you set it up, to tempt poor amorous Mortals with so much Excellence? which I find you have but too well consulted by the unmerciful price you set upon’t.—Is all this Heaven of Beauty shewn to move Despair in those that cannot buy? and can you think the effects of that Despair shou’d be less extravagant than I have shewn?
Ang. I sent for you to ask my Pardon, Sir, not to aggravate your Crime.—I thought I shou’d have seen you at my Feet imploring it.