Belv. And how, and how, dear Lad, has Fortune smil’d? Are we to break her Windows, or raise up Altars to her! hah!
Will. Does not my Fortune sit triumphant on my Brow? dost not see the little wanton God there all gay and smiling? have I not an Air about my Face and Eyes, that distinguish me from the Croud of common Lovers? By Heav’n, Cupid’s Quiver has not half so many Darts as her Eyes—Oh such a Bona Rota, to sleep in her Arms is lying in Fresco, all perfum’d Air about me.
Hell. Here’s fine encouragement for me to fool on. [Aside.
Will. Hark ye, where didst thou purchase that rich Canary we drank to-day? Tell me, that I may adore the Spigot, and sacrifice to the Butt: the Juice was divine, into which I must dip my Rosary, and then bless all things that I would have bold or fortunate.
Belv. Well, Sir, let’s go take a Bottle, and hear the Story of your Success.
Fred. Would not French Wine do better?
Will. Damn the hungry Balderdash; cheerful Sack has a generous Virtue in’t, inspiring a successful Confidence, gives Eloquence to the Tongue, and Vigour to the Soul; and has in a few Hours compleated all my Hopes and Wishes. There’s nothing left to raise a new Desire in me—Come let’s be gay and wanton—and, Gentlemen, study, study what you want, for here are Friends,—that will supply, Gentlemen,—hark! what a charming sound they make—’tis he and she Gold whilst here, shall beget new Pleasures every moment.
Blunt. But hark ye, Sir, you are not married, are you?
Will. All the Honey of Matrimony, but none of the Sting, Friend.
Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, thou’rt a fortunate Rogue.