Driv. To a Friend, a Man of Quality—or so.
Sir Tim. Ay, she blinds the Knight.
Driv. Alas, Sir, easily—he, poor Cully, thinks her a very Saint—but when he’s out of the way, she comes to me to pleasure a Friend.
Sir Tim. But what if the Fool miss her?
Driv. She cries Whore first, brings him upon his Knees for her Fault; and a piece of Plate, or a new Petticoat, makes his Peace again.
Sir _Tim. Why—look you, Mistress, I am that Fop, that very silly Knight, and the rest that you speak of.
Driv. How, Sir? then I’m undone, she’s the Upholder of my Calling, the very Grace of my Function.
Sir Tim. Is she so? e’en keep her to your self then, I’ll have no more of her, by Fortune—I humbly thank you for your Intelligence, and the rest. Well—I see there’s not one honest Whore i’th’ Nation, by Fortune.
Enter Charles Bellmour, and Trusty.
Hark ye, Mistress, what was your Bus’ness here?