Cam. Why, sir, we pass our time, either in conversation alone, or in love alone, or in love and conversation together.
Fred. Come, explain, explain, my counsel learned in the laws of living.
Cam. For conversation alone; that's either in going to court, with a face of business, and there discoursing of the affairs of Europe, of which Rome, you know, is the public mart; or, at best, meeting the virtuosi, and there wearying one another with rehearsing our own works in prose and poetry.
Fred. Away with that dry method, I will have none on't. To the next.
Cam. Love alone, is either plain wenching, where every courtezan is your mistress, and every man your rival; or else, what's worse, plain whining after one woman: that is, walking before her door by day, and haunting her street by night, with guitars, dark-lanthorns, and rondaches[3].
Aur. Which, I take it, is, or will he our case, Camillo.
Fred. Neither of these will fit my humour: If your third prove not more pleasant, I shall stick to the old Almain recreation; the divine bottle, and the bounteous glass, that tuned up old Horace to his odes.
Aur. You shall need to have no recourse to that; for love and conversation will do your business: that is, sir, a most delicious courtezan,—I do not mean down-right punk,—but punk of more than ordinary sense in conversation; punk in ragou, punk, who plays on the lute, and sings; and, to sum up all, punk, who cooks and dresses up herself, with poignant sauce, to become a new dish every time she is served up to you.
Fred. This I believe, Aurelian, is your method of living, you talk of it so savourily.
Aur. There is yet another more insipid sort of love and conversation: As, for example, look you there, sir; the courtship of our nuns. [Pointing to the Nunnery.] They talk prettily; but, a pox on them, they raise our appetites, and then starve us. They are as dangerous as cold fruits without wine, and are never to be used but where there are abundance of wenches in readiness, to qualify them.