Moret. Pox on him, he’ll fret me to Death:—abominable Fellow, I tell thee, we only sell by the whole Piece.
Will. ’Tis very hard, the whole Cargo or nothing—Faith, Madam, my Stock will not reach it, I cannot be your Chapman.—Yet I have Countrymen, in Town, Merchants of Love, like me; I’ll see if they’l put for a share, we cannot lose much by it, and what we have no use for, we’ll sell upon the Friday’s Mart, at—Who gives more? I am studying, Madam, how to purchase you, tho at present I am unprovided of Money.
Ang. Sure, this from any other Man would anger me—nor shall he know the Conquest he has made—Poor angry Man, how I despise this railing.
Will. Yes, I am poor—but I’m a Gentleman,
And one that scorns this Baseness which you practise.
Poor as I am, I would not sell my self,
No, not to gain your charming high-priz’d Person.
Tho I admire you strangely for your Beauty,
Yet I contemn your Mind.
—And yet I wou’d at any rate enjoy you;