[Go aside. Enter Belvile, Fred. and Blunt.
Belv. What means this? the Picture's taken in. Blunt. It may be the
Wench is good-natur'd, and will be kind gratis. Your Friend's a proper
handsom Fellow. Belv. I rather think she has cut his Throat and is
fled: I am mad he should throw himself into Dangers- Pox on't, I shall
want him to night- let's knock and ask for him. Hell. My heart goes
a-pit a-pat, for fear 'tis my Man they talk of. [Knock, Moretta above.
Moret. What would you have? Belv. Tell the Stranger that enter'd here
about two Hours ago, that his Friends stay here for him. Moret. A
Curse upon him for Moretta, would he were at the Devil- but he's
coming to you. [Enter Wilmore. Hell. I, I, 'tis he. Oh how this vexes
me. Belv. And how, and how, dear Lad, has Fortune smil'd? Are we to
break her Windows, or raise up Altars to her! hah! Will. Does not my
Fortune sit triumphantant on my Brow? dost not see the little wanton
God there all gay and smiling? have I not an Air about my Face and
Eyes, that distinguish me from the Croud of common Lovers? By Heav'n,
Cupid's Quiver has not half so many Darts as her Eyes- Oh such a Bona
Roba, to sleep in her Arms is lying in Fresco, all perfum'd Air about
me. Hell. Here's fine encouragement for me to fool on. [Aside. Will.
Hark ye, where didst thou purchase that rich Canary we drank to-day?
Tell me, that I may adore the Spigot, and sacrifice to the Butt: the
Juice was divine, into which I must dip my Rosary, and then bless all
things that I would have bold or fortunate.
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