LUCY. Here’s some villainy afoot; he’s so thoughtful. May be I may discover something in my mask. Worthy sir, a word with you. [Puts on her mask.]
SETTER. Why, if I were known, I might come to be a great man—
LUCY. Not to interrupt your meditation—
SETTER. And I should not be the first that has procured his greatness by pimping.
LUCY. Now poverty and the pox light upon thee for a contemplative pimp.
SETTER. Ha! what art who thus maliciously hast awakened me from my dream of glory? Speak, thou vile disturber—
LUCY. Of thy most vile cogitations—thou poor, conceited wretch, how wert thou valuing thyself upon thy master’s employment? For he’s the head pimp to Mr. Bellmour.
SETTER. Good words, damsel, or I shall—But how dost thou know my master or me?
LUCY. Yes; I know both master and man to be—
SETTER. To be men, perhaps; nay, faith, like enough: I often march in the rear of my master, and enter the breaches which he has made.