Will. I am so, Sir, let these inform you.—Ha, how sweetly they chime! Pox of Poverty, it makes a Man a Slave, makes Wit and Honour sneak, my Soul grew lean and rusty for want of Credit.
Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, this I like well, it looks like my lucky Bargain! Oh how I long for the Approach of my Squire, that is to conduct me to her House again. Why! here’s two provided for.
Fred. By this light y’re happy Men.
Blunt. Fortune is pleased to smile on us, Gentlemen,—to smile on us.
Enter Sancho, and pulls Blunt by the Sleeve. They go aside.
Sancho. Sir, my Lady expects you—she has remov’d all that might oppose your Will and Pleasure—and is impatient till you come.
Blunt. Sir, I’ll attend you—Oh the happiest Rogue! I’ll take no leave, lest they either dog me, or stay me. [Ex. with Sancho.
Belv. But then the little Gipsy is forgot?
Will. A Mischief on thee for putting her into my thoughts; I had quite forgot her else, and this Night’s Debauch had drunk her quite down.
Hell. Had it so, good Captain? [Claps him on the Back.