._ What means this? the Picture's taken in.

_Blunt._ It may be the Wench is good natur'd, and will be kind _gratis_.
Your Friend's a proper handsom Fellow.

_Belv._ I rather think she has cut his Throat and is fled: I am mad he
should throw himself into Dangers-- Pox on't, I shall want him to
night-- let's knock and ask for him.

_Hell._ My heart goes a-pit a-pat, for fear 'tis my Man they talk of.
[Knock, _Moretta_ above.

_More._ What would you have?

_Belv._ Tell the Stranger that enter'd here about two Hours ago, that
his Friends stay here for him.

_Moret._ A Curse upon him for _Moretta_, would he were at the Devil--
but he's coming to you.
[Enter _Wilmore_.

_Hell._ I, I, 'tis he. Oh how this vexes me.

_Belv._ And how, and how, dear Lad, has Fortune smil'd? Are we to break
her Windows, or raise up Altars to her! hah!

_Will._ Does not my Fortune sit triumphant on my Brow? dost not see the
little wanton God there all gay and smiling? have I not an Air about my
Face and Eyes, that distinguish me from the Croud of common Lovers? By
Heav'n, _Cupid's_ Quiver has not half so many Darts as her Eyes-- Oh
such a _Bona Rota_, to sleep in her Arms is lying in Fresco, all
perfum'd Air about me.

_Hell._ Here's fine encouragement for me to fool on. [Aside.

_Will._ Hark ye, where didst thou purchase that rich Canary we drank
to-day? Tell me, that I may adore the Spigot, and sacrifice to the Butt:
the Juice was divine, into which I must dip my Rosary, and then bless
all things that I would have bold or fortunate.

_Belv._ Well, Sir, let's go take a Bottle, and hear the Story of your
Success.

_Fred._ Would not _French_ Wine do better?

_Will._ Damn the hungry Balderdash; cheerful Sack has a generous Virtue
in't, inspiring a successful Confidence, gives Eloquence to the Tongue,
and Vigour to the Soul; and has in a few Hours compleated all my Hopes
and Wishes. There's nothing left to raise a new Desire in me-- Come
let's be gay and wanton-- and, Gentlemen, study, study what you want,
for here are Friends,-- that will supply, Gentlemen,-- hark! what a
charming sound they make-- 'tis he and she Gold whilst here, shall beget
new Pleasures every moment.

_Blunt._ But hark ye, Sir, you are not married, are you?

_Will._ All the Honey of Matrimony, but none of the Sting, Friend.

_Blunt._ 'Sheartlikins, thou'rt a fortunate Rogue.

_Will._ I am so, Sir, let these inform you.-- Ha, how sweetly they
ch