Par. Yes; but I have known her, by this hand, as fine a wench as ever sinned in town or suburbs. When I knew her first, she was the original of all the wainscoat chambermaids with brooms and barefoot madams you see sold at Temple Bar and the Exchange.
Wan. Ah, th' art a devil! how couldst thou find in thy heart to abuse her so? Thou lov'st antiquities too: the very memory that she had been handsome should have pleaded something.
Jolly. Was handsome signifies nothing to me.
Wan. But she's a wit, and a wench of an excellent discourse.
Par. And as good company as any's i' th' town.
Jolly. Company! for whom? Leather-ears, his majesty of Newgate watch? There her story will do well, while they louse themselves.
Par. Well, you are curious now, but the time was when you skipped for a kiss.
Jolly. Prythee, parson, no more of wit and was handsome; but let us keep to this text—[He kisses Wanton]—and with joy think upon thy little Wanton here, that's kind, soft, sweet, and sound: these are epithets for a mistress, nor is there any elegancy in a woman like it. Give me such a naked scene to study night and day: I care not for her tongue, so her face be good. A whore dressed in verse and set speeches tempts me no more to that sweet sin, than the statute of whipping can keep me from it. This thing we talked on, which retains nothing but the name of what she was, is not only poetical in her discourse, but her tears and her love, her health, nay, her pleasure, were all fictions, and had scarce any live flesh about her, till I administered.
Par. Indeed, 'tis time she sat out, and gave others leave to play; for a reverend whore is an unseemly sight: besides it makes the sin malicious, which is but venial else.