Will. Will you believe me
when you lie with her? for thou'rt a rich Ass, and may'st do it. Feth.
Whores- ha, ha- Will. 'Tis strange Logick now, because your Band is
better that mine, I must not know a Whore better than you. Blunt. If
this be a Whore, as thou say'st, I understand nothing- by this Light
such a Wench would pass for a Person of Quality in London. Feth. Few
Ladies have I seen at a Sheriff's Feast have better Faces, or worn so
good Clothes; and by the Lord Harry, if these be of the gentle Craft,
I'd not give a Real for an honest Women for my use. Will. Come follow
me into the Church, for thither I am sure they're gone: And I will let
you see what a wretched thing you had been had you lived seven Years
longer in Surrey, stew'd in Ale and Beef-broth. Feth. O dear Willmore,
name not those savory things, there's no jesting with my Stomach; it
sleeps now, but if it wakes, wo be to your Shares at the Ordinary.
Blunt. I'll say that for Fetherfool, if his Heart were but half so
good as his Stomach, he were a brave Fellow. [Aside, Exeunt. Aria. I
am resolv'd to follow- and learn, if possible, who 'tis has made this
sudden Conquest o'er me. [All go off. [Scene draws, and discovers a
Church, a great many People at Devotion, soft Musick playing. Enter La
Nuche, Aurelia, Petron.
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