“The satyr offers flowers to Aurora,” said the courtier to the courtesan, bowing as gracefully as a touch of rheumatism permitted.
“And Aurora was so fond of flowers that she accepted them, even from the most satiric of satyrs,” said Nell, sinking into a courtesy.
“I plucked these flowers for the fairest flower that—”
“Ah, that is one of Mr. Dryden's images in the reverse,” laughed Nell. “What was the name of t' other young thing?—Proserpine, that's it—who was plucking flowers, and was herself plucked. 'Snails! that's not the word—she was n't a fowl.”
“'Fore Gad, Nell, I never heard that story; it sounds scandalous, so tell it us,” said Sir Charles. “What was the name of the wench, did you say?”
“Her name was Nell Gwyn, and she was gathering oranges to sell in the pit of Drury Lane, when, some say Satan, and some say Sedley—the incongruity between the two accounts is too trifling to call for notice—captivated her, and she had nothing more to do with oranges or orange blossoms.”
“And her life was all the merrier, as I doubt not Madame Proserpine's was when she left the vale of Enna for—well, the Pit—not at Drury Lane.”
“That were a darker depth still. You 've heard the story, then. Mr. Dryden says the moral of it is that the devil has got all the pretty wenches for himself.”
“Not so; he left a few for the king.”
“Nay, the two are partners in the game; but the King, like t' other monarch, is not so black as he is painted.”