_Bel_. Damn it, give us more Wine. [_Drinks_.
Where stands the Box and Dice?--Why, _Sham_.

_Sham_. Faith, Sir, Your Luck's so bad, I han't the Conscience to play
longer--Sir _Timothy_ and you play off a hundred Guineas, and see if
Luck will turn.

_Bel_. Do you take me for a Country Squire, whose Reputation will be
crackt at the loss of a petty Thousand? You have my Note for it to my
Goldsmith.

_Sham_. 'Tis sufficient if it were for ten thousand.

_Bel_. Why, Sir _Timothy_--Pox on't, thou'rt dull, we are not half
debauch'd and leud enough, give us more Wine.

Sir _Tim_. Faith, _Frank_, I'm a little maukish with sitting up all
Night, and want a small refreshment this Morning--Did we not send
for Whores?

_Bel_. No, I am not in humour for a Wench--
By Heaven, I hate the Sex.
All but divine _Celinda_,
Appear strange Monsters to my Eyes and Thoughts.

Sir _Tim_. What, art Italianiz'd, and lovest thy own Sex?

_Bel_. I'm for any thing that's out of the common Road of Sin; I love
a Man that will be damn'd for something: to creep by slow degrees to
Hell, as if he were afraid the World shou'd see which way he went, I