_Blunt._ So, now my Mind's a little at Peace, since I have resolv'd
Revenge-- A Pox on this Taylor tho, for not bringing home the Clothes I
bespoke; and a Pox of all poor Cavaliers, a Man can never keep a spare
Suit for 'em; and I shall have these Rogues come in and find me naked;
and then I'm undone; but I'm resolv'd to arm my self-- the Rascals shall
not insult over me too much. [Puts on an old rusty Sword and Buff-Belt.]
--Now, how like a Morrice-Dancer I am equipt-- a fine Lady-like Whore to
cheat me thus, without affording me a Kindness for my Money, a Pox light
on her, I shall never be reconciled to the Sex more, she has made me as
faithless as a Physician, as uncharitable as a Churchman, and as
ill-natur'd as a Poet. O how I'll use all Women-kind hereafter! what
wou'd I give to have one of 'em within my reach now! any Mortal thing in
Petticoats, kind Fortune, send me; and I'll forgive thy last Night's
Malice-- Here's a cursed Book too, (a Warning to all young Travellers)
that can instruct me how to prevent such Mischiefs now 'tis too late.
Well 'tis a rare convenient thing to read a little now and then, as well
as hawk and hunt.
[Sits down again and reads.

Enter to him _Florinda_.

_Flor._ This House is haunted sure,'tis well furnisht and no living
thing inhabits it-- hah-- a Man! Heavens how he's attir'd! sure 'tis
some Rope-dancer, or Fencing-Master; I tremble now for fear, and yet I
must venture now to speak to him-- Sir, if I may not interrupt your
Meditations--
[He starts up and gazes.

_Blunt._ Hah-- what's here? Are my wishes granted? and is not that a she
Creature? Adsheartlikins 'tis! what wretched thing art thou-- hah!

_Flor._ Charitable Sir, you've told your self already what I am; a very
wretched Maid, forc'd by a strange unlucky Accident, to seek a safety
here, and must be ruin'd, if you do not grant it.

_Blunt._ Ruin'd! Is there any Ruin so inevitable as that which now
threatens thee? Dost thou know, miserable Woman, into what Den of
Mischiefs thou art fall'n? what a Bliss of Confusion?-- hah-- dost not
see something in my looks that frights thy guilty Soul, and makes thee
wish to change that Shape of Woman for any humble Animal, or Devil? for
those were safer for thee, and less mischievous.

_Flor._ Alas, what mean you, Sir? I must confess your Looks have
something in 'em makes me fear; but I beseech you, as you seem a
Gentleman, pity a harmless Virgin, that takes your Hou