L. Ful. Oh, doubtless, Sir—
Gay. But why the Devil do I ask—Yes, you are still the same; one of those hoiting Ladies, that love nothing like Fool and Fiddle; Crouds of Fops; had rather be publickly, though dully, flatter’d, than privately ador’d: you love to pass for the Wit of the Company, by talking all and loud.
L. Ful. Rail on, till you have made me think my Virtue at so low Ebb, it should submit to you.
Gay. What—I’m not discreet enough;
I’ll babble all in my next high Debauch,
Boast of your Favours, and describe your Charms
To every wishing Fool.
L. Ful. Or make most filthy Verses of me—
Under the name of Cloris—you Philander,
Who in leud Rhimes confess the dear Appointment;
What Hour, and where, how silent was the Night,
How full of Love your Eyes, and wishing mine.
Faith, no; if you can afford me a Lease of your Love,
Till the old Gentleman my Husband depart this wicked World,
I’m for the Bargain.
Sir Cau. Hum—what’s here, a young Spark at my Wife?
[Goes about ‘em.
Gay. Unreasonable Julia, is that all,
My Love, my Sufferings, and my Vows must hope?
Set me an Age—say when you will be kind,
And I will languish out in starving Wish:
But thus to gape for Legacies of Love,
Till Youth be past Enjoyment,
The Devil I will as soon—farewel.
[Offers to go.
L. Ful. Stay, I conjure you stay.
Gay. And lose my Assignation with my Devil. [Aside.
Sir Cau. ‘Tis so, ay, ay, ‘tis so—and wise Men will perceive it; ‘tis here—here in my forehead, it more than buds; it sprouts, it flourishes.