Val. Know it! why there’s nothing so easy; thou wilt love this wandring Inconstant till thou find’st thy self hanged about his Neck, and then be as mad to get free again.
Flor. Yes, Valeria; we shall see her bestride his Baggage-horse, and follow him to the Campaign.
Hell. So, so; now you are provided for, there’s no care taken of poor me—But since you have set my Heart a wishing, I am resolv’d to know for what. I will not die of the Pip, so I will not.
Flor. Art thou mad to talk so? Who will like thee well enough to have thee, that hears what a mad Wench thou art?
Hell. Like me! I don’t intend, every he that likes me shall have me, but he that I like: I shou’d have staid in the Nunnery still, if I had lik’d my Lady Abbess as well as she lik’d me. No, I came thence, not (as my wise Brother imagines) to take an eternal Farewel of the World, but to love and to be belov’d; and I will be belov’d or I’ll get one of your Men, so I will.
Val. Am I put into the Number of Lovers?
Hell. You! my Couz, I know thou art too good natur’d to leave us in any Design: [Thou wou’t] venture a Cast, tho thou comest off a Loser, especially with such a Gamester—I observ’d your Man, and your willing Ears incline that way; and if you are not a Lover, ’tis an Art soon learnt—that I find. [Sighs.
Flor. I wonder how you learnt to love so easily, I had a thousand Charms to meet my Eyes and Ears, e’er I cou’d yield; and ’twas the knowledge of Belvile’s Merit, not the surprising Person, took my Soul—Thou art too rash to give a Heart at first sight.
Hell. Hang your considering Lover; I ne’er thought beyond the Fancy, that ’twas a very pretty, idle, silly kind of Pleasure to pass ones time with, to write little, soft, nonsensical Billets, and with great difficulty and danger receive Answers; in which I shall have my Beauty prais’d, my Wit admir’d (tho little or none) and have the Vanity and Power to know I am desirable; then I have the more Inclination that way, because I am to be a Nun, and so shall not be suspected to have any such earthly Thoughts about me—But when I walk thus—and sigh thus—they’ll think my Mind’s upon my Monastery, and cry, how happy ’tis she’s so resolv’d!—But not a Word of Man.
Flor. What a mad Creature’s this!