I know not where to eat when this is gone:
Yet such a Slave I am to Love and Beauty,
This last reserve I'll sacrifice to enjoy you.
--Nay, do not frown, I know you are to be bought,
And wou'd be bought by me, by me,
For a mean trifling Sum, if I could pay it down.
Which happy knowledge I will still repeat,
And lay it to my Heart, it has a Virtue in't,
And soon will cure those Wounds your Eyes have made.
--And yet-- there's something so divinely powerful there--
Nay, I will gaze-- to let you see my Strength.
[Holds her, looks on her, and pauses and sighs.
By Heaven, bright Creature-- I would not for the World
Thy Fame were half so fair as is thy Face.
[Turns her away from him.

_Ang._ His words go thro me to the very Soul. [Aside.] --If you have
nothing else to say to me.

_Will._ Yes, you shall hear how infamous you are--
For which I do not hate thee:
But that secures my Heart, and all the Flames it feels
Are but so many Lusts,
I know it by their sudden bold intrusion.
The Fire's impatient and betrays, 'tis false--
For had it been the purer Flame of Love,
I should have pin'd and languished at your Feet,
E'er found the Impudence to have discover'd it.
I now dare stand your Scorn, and your Denial.

_Moret._ Sure she's bewitcht, that she can stand thus tamely, and hear
his saucy railing.-- Sirrah, will you be gone?

_Ang._ How dare you take this liberty?-- Withdraw. [To _Moret._] --Pray,
tell me, Sir, are not you guilty of the same mercenary Crime? When a
Lady is proposed to you for a Wife, you never ask, how fair, discreet,
or virtuous she is; but what's her Fortune-- which if but small, you
cry-- She will not do my business-- and basely leave her, tho she
languish for you.-- Say, is not this as poor?

_Will._ It is a barbarous Custom, which I will scorn to defend in our
Sex, and do despise in yours.

_Ang._ Thou art a brave Fellow! put up thy Gold, and know,
That were thy Fortune large, as is thy Soul,
Thou shouldst not buy my Love,
Couldst thou forget those mean Effects of Vanity,
Which set me out to sale; and as a Lover, prize
My yielding Joys.
Canst thou believe they'l be entirely thine,
Without considering they were mercenary?

_Will._ I cannot tell, I must bethink me first-- ha, Death, I'm going to
believe her.
[Aside.

_Ang._ Prithee, confirm that Faith-- or if thou canst not-- flatter me a
little, 'twill please me from thy Mo