L. Dunce. Clarinda I was called, till my ill-fortune wedded me; now you may have heard of me by another title: your friend there, I suppose, has made nothing a secret to you.
Beau. And are you then that kind enchanted fair one who was so passionately in love with my picture that you could not forbear betraying me to the beast your husband, and wrong the passion of a gentleman that languished for you, only to make your monster merry? Hark you, madam! had your fool been worth it, I had beaten him, and have a month's mind[39] to be exercising my parts that way upon your go-between, your male-bawd there.
Sir Jol. Ah Lord! ah Lord! all's spoiled again, all's ruined; I shall be undone for ever! Why, what a devil is the matter now? what have I done? what sins have I committed? [Aside.
L. Dunce. And are you that passionate adorer of our sex, who cannot live a week in London without loving? Are you the shark that sends your picture up and down to longing ladies, longing for a pattern of your person?
Beau. Yes, madam, when I receive so good hostages as these are—[Shows the gold]—that it shall be well used. Could you find nobody but me to play the fool withal?
Sir Jol. Alack-a-day!
L. Dunce. Could you pitch upon nobody but that wretched woman that has loved you too well to abuse you thus?
Sir Jol. That ever I was born!
Beau. Here, here, madam, I'll return you your dirt; I scorn your wages, as I do your service.
L. Dunce. Fie for shame! what, refund? that is not like a soldier, to refund: keep, keep it to pay your sempstress withal.