Bellmour, Vainlove.

BELL.  A very certain remedy, probatum est.  Ha, ha, ha, poor George, thou art i’ th’ right, thou hast sold thyself to laughter; the ill-natured town will find the jest just where thou hast lost it.  Ha, ha, how a’ struggled, like an old lawyer between two fees.

VAIN.  Or a young wench between pleasure and reputation.

BELL.  Or as you did to-day, when half afraid you snatched a kiss from Araminta.

VAIN.  She has made a quarrel on’t.

BELL.  Pauh, women are only angry at such offences to have the pleasure of forgiving them.

VAIN.  And I love to have the pleasure of making my peace.  I should not esteem a pardon if too easily won.

BELL.  Thou dost not know what thou wouldst be at; whether thou wouldst have her angry or pleased.  Couldst thou be content to marry Araminta?

VAIN.  Could you be content to go to heaven?

BELL.  Hum, not immediately, in my conscience not heartily.  I’d do a little more good in my generation first, in order to deserve it.

VAIN.  Nor I to marry Araminta till I merit her.

BELL.  But how the devil dost thou expect to get her if she never yield?

VAIN.  That’s true; but I would—

BELL.  Marry her without her consent; thou ’rt a riddle beyond woman—