Bel. Be gone, Repentance! Thou needless Goodness, Which if I follow, canst lead me to no Joys. Come, tell me the Price of all your Pleasures.
Sir Tim. Look you, Mistress, I am but a Country Knight.
Yet I shou’d be glad of your farther Acquaintance.
—Pray, who may that Lady be—
Driv. Who, Mrs. Flauntit, Sir?
Sir Tim. Ay, she: she’s tearing fine, by Fortune.
Driv. I’ll assure you, Sir, she’s kept, and is a great Rarity, but to a Friend, or so—
Sir Tim. Hum—kept—pray, by whom?
Driv. Why, a silly Knight, Sir, that—
Sir Tim. Ay, ay, silly indeed—a Pox upon her—a silly Knight, you say—
Driv. Ay, Sir, one she makes a very Ass of.
Sir Tim. Ay, so methinks—but she’s kind, and will do reason for all him.