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 Bell. All things are Faults to those, who seek to find 'em. 'Tis you are Perjur'd, and not I, after having sworn to you had I engag'd in a new Passion, then I had been false. Now if I am false, 'tis for your sake; 'tis you that made me so, whatever I have been to others, to you my Faith has been inviolable.

Luc. Who can be false to one, 'tis violently to be suspected will be so to another, whenever his Pleasure or his Interest tempts him.

Bell. Confess the truth, and lay aside disguise; impute not to me your Crimes; this Airy, Smooth, Conceited Coxcomb, this Woman's Fool here, has workt into your Heart, and shov'd me out; this lucky Robber, in some wanton moment came, and rifled all the Treasure, whilst I, a poor precarious Beggar, ne'er could get the least unvalued Trifle. Gods! Gods! what Appetites have Women, and who can fix 'em? Now for Men of Sense, and now for Coxcombs; and every thing is refus'd or goes down, just as the Minute is, that we lay hold of.

(Omnes.) Ha, ha, ha.

Bell. What could you see in this puny Effeminate thing, to Charm you? He can Sing and Dance, Play on the Flute, and Fiddle, there's Woman's Vanity again: She never sees a soft Affected Ass, but she is pleased with the reflection of her own Follies, and admires her self in every Fop, that like a Glass shows her the Image of her own Mind.

Phil. You are Rude, Sir.

Bell. Rude, Sir!

Phil. Ay, Rude Sir, that's English.

Bell. You are an Ass, Sir: Or is it your Soldier here, that Charms you? your Colonel! O how that founds to please a Ladies Ear! Is it his Red Coat, or his Hoboyes that take you most? what Wounds has he to show you? what Deeds in Battle to describe? what Dangers? he has seen a Siege thro' a Prospective Glass

L. Dor. I can endure this odious Railer no longer; his Noise is got up into my Head—let us go in and leave this Wrangler to Rave by himself. Ang.