Bel. Why, Sir Timothy—Pox on’t, thou’rt dull, we are not half debauch’d and leud enough, give us more Wine.
Sir Tim. Faith, Frank, I’m a little maukish with sitting up all Night, and want a small refreshment this Morning—Did we not send for Whores?
Bel. No, I am not in humour for a Wench—
By Heaven, I hate the Sex.
All but divine Celinda,
Appear strange Monsters to my Eyes and Thoughts.
Sir Tim. What, art Italianiz’d, and lovest thy own Sex?
Bel. I’m for any thing that’s out of the common Road of Sin; I love a Man that will be damn’d for something: to creep by slow degrees to Hell, as if he were afraid the World shou’d see which way he went, I scorn it, ‘tis like a Conventicler—No, give me a Man, who to be certain of’s Damnation, will break a solemn Vow to a contracted Maid.
Sir Tim. Ha, ha, ha, I thought thou would’st have said at least—had murder’d his Father, or ravish’d his Mother—Break a Vow, quoth ye—by Fortune, I have broke a thousand.
Bel. Well said, my Boy! A Man of Honour! And will be ready whene’er the Devil calls for thee—So—ho—more Wine, more Wine, and Dice.
Enter a Servant with Dice and Wine.
Come, Sir, let me— [Throws and loses.
Sir Tim. What will you set me, Sir?