That were thy Fortune large, as is thy Soul,
Thou shouldst not buy my Love,
Couldst thou forget those mean Effects of Vanity,
Which set me out to sale; and as a Lover, prize
My yielding Joys.
Canst thou believe they’l be entirely thine,
Without considering they were mercenary?
Will. I cannot tell, I must bethink me first—ha, Death, I’m going to believe her. [Aside.
Ang. Prithee, confirm that Faith—or if thou canst not—flatter me a little, ’twill please me from thy Mouth.
Will. Curse on thy charming Tongue! dost thou return