_Ach._ No _Septimius_,
To be a _Roman_ were an honour to you,
Did not your manners, and your life take from it,
And cry aloud, that from _Rome_ you bring nothing
But _Roman_ Vices, which you would plant here,
But no seed of her vertues.
_Sep._ With your reverence
I am too old to learn.
_Ach._ Any thing honest,
That I believe, without an oath.
_Sep._ I fear
Your Lordship has slept ill to night, and that
Invites this sad discourse: 'twill make you old
Before your time:--O these vertuous Morals,
And old religious principles, that fool us!
I have brought you a new Song, will make you laugh,
Though you were at your prayers.
_A[c]h._ What is the subject?
Be free _Septimius_.
_Sep._ 'Tis a Catalogue
Of all the Gamesters of the Court and City,
Which Lord lyes with that Lady, and what Gallant
Sports with that Merchants wife; and does relate
Who sells her honour for a Diamond,
Who, for a tissew robe: whose husband's jealous,
And who so kind, that, to share with his wife,
Will make the match himself:
Harmless conceits,
Though fools say they are dangerous: I sang it
The last night at my Lord _Photinus_ table.
_Ach._ How? as a Fidler?
_Sep._ No Sir, as a Guest,
A welcom guest too: and it was approv'd of
By a dozen of his friends, though they were touch'd in't:
For look you, 'tis a kind of merriment,
When we have laid by foolish modesty
(As not a man of fashion will wear it)
To talk what we have done; at least to hear it;
If meerily set down, it fires the blood,
And heightens Crest-faln appetite.
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