Mor. Stay, stay, what Women are these?
Oct. Whores, Sir, and so ‘tis ten to one are all the kind; only these differ from the rest in this, they generously own their trade of Sin, which others deal by stealth in; they are Curtezans. [Exeunt.
Mar. The Evening’s soft and calm, as happy Lovers Thoughts; And here are Groves where the kind meeting Trees Will hide us from the amorous gazing Croud.
Cor. What should we do there, sigh till our wandering Breath
Has rais’d a gentle Gale amongst the Boughs;
To whose dull melancholy Musick we,
Laid on a Bed of Moss, and new-fallen Leaves,
Will read the dismal tale of Echo’s Love!
—No, I can make better use of famous Ovid.
[Snatches a little Book from her.
And prithee what a pox have we to do with Trees,
Flowers, Fountains, or naked Statues?
Mar. But, prithee, mad Cornelia, let’s be grave and wise, at least enough to think a little.
Cor. On what? your English Cavalier Fillamour, of whom you tell so many dull stories of his making Love! Oh, how I hate a civil whining Coxcomb!
Mar. And so do I, I’ll therefore think of him no more.
Cor. Good Lord! what a damnable wicked thing is a Virgin grown up to Woman.
Mar. What, art thou such a Fool to think I love this Fillamour?
Cor. It may be not at Rome, but at Viterbo, where Men are scarce, you did; and did you follow him to Rome, to tell him you cou’d love no more?