Ay,
Child, or I were a lost Man- therefore, dear lovely Creature- Aria.
How can you tell, Sir? Will. Oh, I have naturally a large Faith,
Child, and thou'st promising Form, a tempting Motion, clean Limbs,
well drest, and a most damnable inviting Air. Aria. I am not to be
sold, nor fond of Praise I merit not. Will. How, not to be sold too!
By this light, Child, thou speakest like a Cherubim, I have not heard
so obliging a Sound from the Mouth of Woman-kind this many a Day- I
find we must be better acquainted, my Dear. Aria. Your Reason, good
familiar Sir, I see no such Necessity. Will. Child, you are mistaken,
I am in great Necessity; for first I love thee- desperately- have I
not damn'd my Soul already for thee, and wouldst thou be so wicked to
refuse a little Consolation to my Body? Then secondly, I see thou art
frank and good-natur'd, and wilt do Reason gratis. Aria. How prove ye
that, good Mr. Philospher? Will. Thou say'st thou'rt not to be sold,
and I'm sure thou'rt to be had- that lovely Body of so divine a Form,
those soft smooth Arms and Hands, were made t'embrace as well as be
embrac'd; that delicate white rising Bosom to be prest, and all thy
other Charms to be enjoy'd. Aria. By one that can esteem 'em to their
worth, can set a Value and a Rate upon 'em. Will. Name not those
Words, they grate my Ears like Jointure, that dull conjugal Cant that
frights the generous Lover.
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