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little Spark of Love, is Collonel Philabel, a brave metled Fellow, newly arrived from Flanders, where he has been most Heroickly, adzooks, learning to ride—the Flying-horse in a Dutch Troop.
Phil. I shall be glad of your Acquaintance, Sir, and desire to be look'd upon as your Friend.
Sir Toby. Pox o' Speeches,—Kiss you Rogues,—Kissing makes the best Friends;—one Kiss is worth half a dozen Speeches; Pox o' Speeches,—would 'twere a Girl, old Phil. gad I'd hold the Door, tho' 'twere my own Daughter.
Ang. Well said old Iniquity.—Thou hast nick'd it, if thou knew'st all.
Phil. Now Gentlemen, that I may not be absolutely a Stranger to this Town, instruct me how this Side of the World is alter'd since I left it; What are the Diversions in Vogue? How do the Men behave themselves? And how are the Ladies to be govern'd?
Sir Toby. Why, faith, the Men are as abominable Rogues as ever, always Drunk, and always Pox'd, begad; nothing is heard of but Tavern-brawls and Midnight Rapes and Murders; nothing to be met but Sharpers and Cullies, Pickpockets and Politicians, Cutpurses and Lawyers; Parsons that point out Roads they ne're go; Physicians that prescribe what they never take; Courtiers that promise what they never perform; Colonels that tell of Battels they never saw; Beauxs that lye with Women they never could come near; Pocky Lords, Bloated Commoners, and Pale-fac'd Catamites.
Phil. Most illustriously sum'd up;—but the Women, Sir Toby, the Women.
Sir Toby. Why, of them too, there are of all sorts, good and bad.—Good, did I say, very few good, but very Devout, and great frequenters of St. James's Church; whoever goes that Road, can't fail of Heaven, at least of Heavenly Joys.
Phil. None are so Devout, I hope, as to renounce the Pleasures and Conventions of the World.
Sir Toby. No, ne'er trouble your self, the Saints themselves have failings; human Flesh is frail. So you lift up one hand to Heaven, you may lift up the Petticoat with t'other: Let their
