Wit. She who told me, I assure you, is one you have been indebted to a long while.
Luck. Whom do you mean?
Wit. One who complains of your unkindness in not visiting her—Mrs Lovewood.
Luck. Dost thou visit there still, then?
Wit. I throw an idle hour away there sometimes. When I am in an ill-humour I am sure of feeding it there with all the scandal in town, for no bawd is half so diligent in looking after girls with an uncracked maidenhead as she in searching out women with cracked reputations.
Luck. The much more infamous office of the two.
Wit. Thou art still a favourer of the women, I find.
Luck. Ay, the women and the muses—the high roads to beggary.
Wit. What, art thou not cured of scribling yet?
Luck. No, scribling is as impossible to cure as the gout.