SCAN. What, I know Trapland has been a whoremaster, and loves a
wench still. You never knew a whoremaster that was not an honest
fellow.

TRAP. Fie, Mr Scandal, you never knew -

SCAN. What don't I know? I know the buxom black widow in the
Poultry. 800 pounds a year jointure, and 20,000 pounds in money.
Aha! old Trap.

VAL. Say you so, i'faith? Come, we'll remember the widow. I know
whereabouts you are; come, to the widow -

TRAP. No more, indeed.

VAL. What, the widow's health; give it him--off with it. [They
drink.] A lovely girl, i'faith, black sparkling eyes, soft pouting
ruby lips! Better sealing there than a bond for a million, ha?

TRAP. No, no, there's no such thing; we'd better mind our business.
You're a wag.

VAL. No, faith, we'll mind the widow's business: fill again.
Pretty round heaving breasts, a Barbary shape, and a jut with her
bum would stir an anchoret: and the prettiest foot! Oh, if a man
could but fasten his eyes to her feet as they steal in and out, and
play at bo-peep under her petticoats, ah! Mr Trapland?

TRAP. Verily, give me a glass. You're a wag,--and here's to the