The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume 3 | Page 3

But ready Money, ye Rogues! What Charms
it has! makes the Waiters fly, Boys, and the Master with Cap in
Hand--excuse what's amiss, Gentlemen--Your Worship shall command
the best--and the rest--How briskly the Box and Dice dance, and the
ready Money submits to the lucky Gamester, and the gay Wench
consults with every Beauty to make her self agreeable to the Man with
ready Money! In fine, dear Rogues, all things are sacrific'd to its Power;
and no Mortal conceives the Joy of Argent Content. 'Tis this powerful

God that makes me submit to the Devil, Matrimony; and then thou art
assur'd of me, my stout Lads of brisk Debauch.
Sham. And is it possible you can be ty'd up to a Wife? Whilst here in
London, and free, you have the whole World to range in, and like a
wanton Heifer, eat of every Pasture.
Sir Tim. Why, dost think I'll be confin'd to my own dull Enclosure? No,
I had rather feed coarsely upon the boundless Common; perhaps two or
three days I may be in love, and remain constant, but that's the most.
Sharp. And in three Weeks, should you wed a Cynthia, you'd be a
Monster.
Sir Tim. What, thou meanest a Cuckold, I warrant. God help thee! But a
Monster is only so from its Rarity, and a Cuckold is no such strange
thing in our Age.
Enter Bellmour and Friendlove.
But who comes here? Bellmour! Ah, my little dear Rogue! how dost
thou? --Ned Friendlove too! Dear Lad, how dost thou too? Why,
welcome to Town, i'faith, and I'm glad to see you both.
Friend. Sir Timothy Tawdrey!--
Sir Tim. The same, by Fortune, dear Ned: And how, and how, Man,
how go Matters?
Friend. Between who, Sir?
Sir Tim. Why, any Body, Man; but, by Fortune, I'm overjoy'd to meet
thee: But where dost think I was going?
Friend. Is't possible one shou'd divine?
Sir Tim. Is't possible you shou'd not, and meet me so near your Sister's
Lodgings? Faith, I was coming to pay my Respects and Services, and
the rest--Thou know'st my meaning--The old Business of the

Silver-World, Ned; by Fortune, it's a mad Age we live in, Ned; and here
be so many--wicked Rogues, about this damn'd leud Town, that, 'faith,
I am fain to speak in the vulgar modish Style, in my own Defence, and
railly Matrimony and the rest.
Friend. Matrimony!--I hope you are so exactly refin'd a Man of the
Town, that you will not offer once to think of so dull a thing: let that
alone for such cold Complexions as Bellmour here, and I, that have not
attain'd to that most excellent faculty of Keeping yet, as you, Sir
Timothy, have done; much to your Glory, I assure you.
Sir Tim. Who, I, Sir? You do me much Honour: I must confess I do not
find the softer Sex cruel; I am received as well as another Man of my
Parts.
Friend. Of your Money you mean, Sir.
Sir Tim. Why, 'faith, Ned, thou art i'th' right; I love to buy my Pleasure:
for, by Fortune, there's as much pleasure in Vanity and Variety, as any
Sins I know; What think'st thou, Ned?
Friend. I am not of your Mind, I love to love upon the square; and that
I may be sure not to be cheated with false Ware, I present 'em nothing
but my Heart.
Sir Tim. Yes, and have the Consolation of seeing your frugal huswifery
Miss in the Pit, at a Play, in a long Scarf and Night-gown, for want of
Points, and Garniture.
Friend. If she be clean, and pretty, and drest in Love, I can excuse the
rest, and so will she.
Sir Tim. I vow to Fortune, Ned, thou must come to London, and be a
little manag'd: 'slife, Man, shouldst thou talk so aloud in good
Company, thou wouldst be counted a strange Fellow. Pretty--and drest
with Love--a fine Figure, by Fortune: No, Ned, the painted Chariot
gives a Lustre to every ordinary Face, and makes a Woman look like
Quality; Ay, so like, by Fortune, that you shall not know one from

t'other, till some scandalous, out-of-favour'd laid-aside Fellow of the
Town, cry--Damn her for a Bitch--how scornfully the Whore regards
me--She has forgot since Jack--such a one, and I, club'd for the keeping
of her, when both our Stocks well manag'd wou'd not amount to above
seven Shillings six Pence a week; besides now and then a Treat of a
Breast of Mutton from the next Cook's.--Then the other laughs, and
crys--Ay, rot her--and tells his Story too, and concludes with, Who
manages the Jilt now; Why, faith, some dismal Coxcomb or other, you
may be sure, replies the first. But, Ned, these are Rogues, and Rascals,
that