Two Men drest all over with Horns of
several sorts, making Grimaces at one another, with Papers pinn'd on
their Backs, advance from the farther end of the Scene. Belv. Oh the
fantastical Rogues, how they are dress'd! 'tis a Satir against the
whole Sex. Will. Is this a Fruit that grows in this warm Country?
Belv. Yes: 'Tis pretty to see these Italian start, swell, and stab at
the Word Cuckold, and yet stumble at Horns on every Threshold. Will.
See what's on their Back- Flowers for every Night. [Reads. -Ah Rogue!
And more sweet than Roses of ev'ry Month! This is a Gardiner of Adam's
own breeding. [They dance. Belv. What think you of those grave
People?- is a Wake in Essex half so mad or extravagant? Will. I like
their sober grave way, 'tis a kind of legal authoriz'd Fornication,
where the Men are not chid for't, nor the Women despis'd, as amongst
our dull English; even the Monsieurs want that part of good Manners.
Belv. But here in Italy a Monsieur is the humblest best-bred
Gentleman- Duels are so baffled by Bravo's that an age shews not one,
but between a Frenchman and a Hang-man, who is as much too hard for
him on the Piazza, as they are for a Dutchman on the new Bridge- But
see another Crew. Enter Florinda, Hellena, and Valeria, drest like
Gipsies; Callis and Stephano, Lucetta, Philippo and Sancho in
Masquerade.
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