Sir Tim. How, the Women?—Hold, hold, Bellmour, let me choose too—
Come, come, unmask, and shew your pretty Faces.
Flaunt. How, Sir Timothy! What Devil ow’d me a spite. [Aside.
Sir Tim. Come, unmask, I say: a willing Wench would have shew’d all in half this time.
Flaunt. Wou’d she so, Impudence! [Pulls off her Mask.
Sir Tim. How, my Betty!
Flaunt. This is the Trade you drive, you eternal Fop, when I sit at home expecting you Night after Night.
Sir Tim. Nay, dear Betty!
Flaunt. ‘Tis here you spend that which shou’d buy me Points and Petticoats, whilst I go like no body’s Mistress; I’d as live be your Wife at this rate, so I had: and I’m in no small danger of getting the foul Disease by your Leudness.
Sir Tim. Victorious Betty, be merciful, and do not ruin my Reputation amongst my Friends.
Flaunt. Your Whores you mean, you Sot you.