Sharp. As a Goddess, Sir.
Sir Tim. And art thou sure she will be leud?
Sharp. Are we sure she’s a Woman, Sir?—Sure, she’s in her Teens, has Pride and Vanity—and two or three Sins more that I cou’d name, all which never fail to assist a Woman in Debauchery—But, Sir, there are certain People that belong to her, that must be consider’d too.
Sir Tim. Stay, Sir, e’er I part with more Money, I’ll be certain what returns ‘twill make me—that is, I’ll see the Wench, not to inform my self, how well I like her, for that I shall do, because she is new, and Bellmour’s Sister—but to find what possibility there is in gaining her.—I am us’d to these things, and can guess from a Look, or a Kiss, or a Touch of the Hand—but then I warrant, ‘twill come to the knowledge of Betty Flauntit.
Sham. What, Sir, then it seems you doubt us?
Sir Tim. How do you mean, your Honesty or Judgment? I can assure you,
I doubt both.
Sharp. How, Sir, doubt our Honesty!
Sir Tim. Yes—why, I hope neither of you pretend to either, do you?
Sham. Why, Sir, what, do you take us for Cheats?
Sir Tim. As errant, as any’s in Christendom.