Moret. Keep it to pay your Landress, your Linen stinks of the
Gun-Room; for here's no selling by Retail. Will. Thou hast sold plenty
of thy stale Ware at a cheap Rate. Moret. Ay, the more silly kind
Heart I, but this is at an Age wherein Beauty is at higher Rates.- In
fine, you know the price of this. Will. I grant you 'tis here set down
a thousand Crowns a Month- Baud, take your black Lead and sum it up,
that I may have a Pistole-worth of these vain gay things, and I'll
trouble you no more. Moret. Pox on him, he'll fret me to Death:-
abominable Fellow, I tell thee, we only sell by the whole Piece. Will.
'Tis very hard, the whole Cargo or nothing- Faith, Madam, my Stock
will not reach it, I cannot be your Chapman.- Yet I have Countrymen in
Town, Merchants of Love, like me; I'll see if they'l put for a share,
we cannot lose much by it, and what we have no use for, we'll sell
upon the Friday's Mart, at- Who gives more? I am studying, Madam, how
to purchase you, tho at present I am unprovided of Money. Ang. Sure,
this from any other Man would anger me- nor shall he know the Conquest
he has made- Poor angry Man, how I despise this railing. Will. Yes, I
am poor- but I'm a Gentleman, And one that scorns this Baseness which
you practise. Poor as I am, I would not sell my self, No, not to gain
your charming high-priz'd Person.
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