Gal. Or if thou hadst, I know of no such Dog as wou’d believe thee:
No, thou art false to thy own Charms, and hast betray’d them
To the possession of the vilest Wretch
That ever Fortune curst with Happiness;
False to thy Joys, false to thy Wit and Youth:
All which thou’st damn’d with so much careful Industry
To an eternal Fool,
That all the Arts of Love can ne’er redeem thee.
Sir Sig. Meaning me, meaning me.
[Peeping out of the Chimney, his Face blackt.
Cor. A Fool! what Indiscretion have you seen in me, shou’d make ye think I would choose a Witty man for a Lover, who perhaps loves out his Month in pure good Husbandry, and in that time does more Mischief than a hundred Fools. You conquer without Resistance, you treat without Pity, and triumph without Mercy: and when you are gone, the World crys—she had not Wit enough to keep him, when indeed you are not Fool enough to be kept! Thus we forfeit both our Liberties and Discretion with you villanous witty Men: for Wisdom is but good Success in things, and those that fail are Fools.
Gal. Most gloriously disputed! You’re grown a Machivellian in your Art.
Cor. Oh, necessary Maxims only, and the first Politicks we learn from Observation—I have known a Curtezan grown infamous, despis’d, decay’d, and ruin’d, in the Possession of you witty Men, who when she had the luck to break her Chains, and cast her Net for Fools, has liv’d in state, finer than Brides upon their Wedding-day, and more profuse than the young amorous Coxcomb that set her up an Idol.
Sir Sig. Well argued of my side, I see the Baggage loves me!
[Peeping out with a Face more smutted.
Gal. And hast thou? Oh, but prithee jilt me on,
And say thou hast not destin’d all thy Charms
To such a wicked Use.
Is that dear Face and Mouth for Slaves to kiss?
Shall those bright Eyes be gaz’d upon, and serve
But to reflect the Images of Fools?
Sir Sig. That’s I still. [Peeping more black.
Gal. Shall that soft tender Bosom be approacht By one who wants a Soul, to breathe in languishment At every Kiss that presses it?
Sir Sig. Soul! what a pox care I for Soul—as long as my Person is so amiable?