Volume I Part 7 (2/2)

_Will._ Let me salute you my dear _Fred_, and then command me-- How is't honest Lad?

_Fred._ Faith, Sir, the old Complement, infinitely the better to see my dear mad _Willmore_ again-- Prithee why camest thou ash.o.r.e? and where's the Prince?

_Will._ He's well, and reigns still Lord of the watery Element-- I must aboard again within a Day or two, and my Business ash.o.r.e was only to enjoy my self a little this Carnival.

_Belv._ Pray know our new Friend, Sir, he's but bashful, a raw Traveller, but honest, stout, and one of us.

[Embraces _Blunt_.

_Will._ That you esteem him, gives him an Interest here.

_Blunt._ Your Servant, Sir.

_Will._ But well-- Faith I'm glad to meet you again in a warm Climate, where the kind Sun has its G.o.d-like Power still over the Wine and Woman.-- Love and Mirth are my Business in _Naples_; and if I mistake not the Place, here's an excellent Market for Chapmen of my Humour.

_Belv._ See here be those kind Merchants of Love you look for.

Enter several Men in masquing Habits, some playing on Musick, others dancing after; Women drest like Curtezans, with Papers pinn'd to their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and Baskets of Flowers in their Hands.

_Blunt._ 'Sheartlikins, what have we here!

_Fred._ Now the Game begins.

_Will._ Fine pretty Creatures! may a stranger have leave to look and love?-- What's here-- _Roses for every Month!_ [Reads the Paper.

_Blunt._ Roses for every Month! what means that?

_Belv._ They are, or wou'd have you think they're Curtezans, who herein _Naples_ are to be hir'd by the Month.

_Will._ Kind and obliging to inform us-- Pray where do these Roses grow?

I would fain plant some of 'em in a Bed of mine.

_Wom._ Beware such Roses, Sir.

_Will._ A Pox of fear: I'll be bak'd with thee between a pair of Sheets, and that's thy proper Still, so I might but strow such Roses over me and under me-- Fair one, wou'd you wou'd give me leave to gather at your Bush this idle Month, I wou'd go near to make some Body smell of it all the Year after.

_Belv._ And thou hast need of such a Remedy, for thou stinkest of Tar and Rope-ends, like a Dock or Pesthouse.

[The Woman puts herself into the Hands of a Man, and _Exit_.

_Will._ Nay, nay, you shall not leave me so.

_Belv._ By all means use no Violence here.

_Will._ Death! just as I was going to be d.a.m.nably in love, to have her led off! I could pluck that Rose out-of his Hand, and even kiss the Bed, the Bush it grew in.

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