- Flor. He's come!- hah- who's there? Will. Sweet
Soul, let me salute thy Shoe-string. Flor. 'Tis not my Belvile- good
Heavens, I know him not.- Who are you, and from whence come you? Will.
Prithee- prithee, Child- not so many hard Questions- let it suffice I
am here, Child- Come, come kiss me. Flor. Good Gods! what luck is
mine? Will. Only good luck, Child, parlous good luck.- Come hither,-
'tis a delicate shining Wench,- by this Hand she's perfum'd, and
smells like any Nosegay.- Prithee, dear Soul, let's not play the Fool,
and lose time,- precious time- for as Gad shall save me, I'm as honest
a Fellow as breathes, tho I am a little disguis'd at present.- Come, I
say,- why, thou may'st be free with me, I'll be very secret. I'll not
boast who 'twas oblig'd me, not I- for hang me if I know thy Name.
Flor. Heavens! what a filthy beast is this! Will. I am so, and thou
oughtst the sooner to lie with me for that reason,- for look you,
Child, there will be no Sin in't, because 'twas neither design'd nor
premeditated; 'tis pure Accident on both sides- that's a certain thing
now- Indeed should I make love to you, and you vow Fidelity- and swear
and lye till you believ'd and yielded- Thou art therefore (as thou art
a good Christian) oblig'd in Conscience to deny me nothing. Now- come,
be kind, without any more idle prating.
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