Rate- Death, let the old Dotards talk of
Rates, and pay it t'atone for the Defects of Impotence. Let the sly
Statesman, who jilts the Commonwealth with his grave Politicks, pay
for the Sin, that he may doat in secret; let the brisk Fool inch out
his scanted Sense with a large Purse more eloquent than he: But tell
not me of Rates, who bring a Heart, Youth, Vigor, and a Tongue to sing
the Praise of every single Pleasure thou shalt give me. Aria. Then if
I should be kind, I perceive you would not keep the Secret. Will.
Secrecy is a damn'd ungrateful Sin, Child, known only where Religion
and Small-beer are current, despis'd where Apollo and the Vine bless
the Country: you find none of Jove's Mistresses hid in Roots and
Plants, but fixt Stars in Heaven for all to gaze and wonder at- and
tho I am no God, my Dear, I'll do a Mortal's Part, and generously tell
the admiring World what hidden Charms thou hast: Come, lead me to some
Place of Happiness- Blunt. Prithee, honest Damsel, be not so full of
Questions; will a Pistole or two do thee any hurt? Luc. None at all,
Sir- Blunt. Thou speak'st like a hearty Wench- and I believe hast not
been one of Venus' Hand-maids so long, but thou understand thy Trade-
In short, fair Damsel, this honest Fellow here who is so termagant
upon thy Lady, is my Friend, my particular Friend, and therefore I
would have him handsomly, and well-favour'dly abus'd- you conceive me.
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