Wit. Nor to Chuch?
L. Fan. To a Meeting-house you mean, and then too carries me, and is as vainly proud of me as of his rebellious Opinion, for his Religion means nothing but that, and Contradiction; which I seem to like too, since ’tis the best Cloke I can put on to cheat him with.
Wit. Right, my fair Hypocrite.
L. Fan. But, dear Wittmore, there’s nothing so comical as to hear me cant, and even cheat those Knaves, the Preachers themselves, that delude the ignorant Rabble.
Wit. What Miracles cannot your Eyes and Tongue perform!
L. Fan. Judge what a fine Life I lead the while, to be set up with an old formal doting sick Husband, and a Herd of snivelling grinning Hypocrites, that call themselves the teaching Saints; who under pretence of securing me to the number of their Flock, do so sneer upon me, pat my Breasts, and cry fie, fie upon this fashion of tempting Nakedness. Through the Nose.
Wit. Dear Creature, how cou’d we laugh at thy new way of living, had we but some Minutes allow’d us to enjoy that Pleasure alone.
L. Fan. Think, dear Wittmore, think, Maundy and I have thought over all our Devices to no purpose.
Wit. Pox on’t, I’m the dullest dog at plotting, thinking, in the world; I should have made a damnable ill Town Poet: Has he quite left off going to the Change?
L. Fan. Oh, he’s grown cautiously rich, and will venture none of his substantial Stock in transitory Traffick.