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A monologue from the play by Mary Pix

Sir Francis

As for the damosels, three sorts make a bushel, and will be uppermost. First, there’s your common jilts will oblige every body. (…) You may call ’em what you please, but they are very plentiful, I promise you.

The next is your kept mistress, she’s a degree modester, if not kind to each, appears in her dress like quality, whilst her ogling eyes, and too frequent debauches discovers her the younger sister only to the first. (. . .)

The third is not a wh*re, but a brisk, airy, noisy coquette, that lives upon treating. One spark has her to the play, another to the park, a third to Windsor, a fourth to some other place of diversion.

She has not the heart to grant ’em all favours, for that’s their design at the bottom of the treats, and they have
not the heart to marry her, for that’s her design, too, poor creature.

So perhaps a year, or it may be two, the gaudy butterfly flutters round the kingdom, then if a foolish cit does not take compassion, sneaks into a corner, dies an old maid, despised and forgotten.

The men that fit those ladies are your rake, your cully, and your beau. (…) Gad, honest, honourable Ned, I must own I have a fling at all.

Sometimes I think it worth my while to make a keeper jealous; frequently treat the coquette, till either she grows upon me, or I grow weary of her.

Then ’tis but saying a rude thing, she quarrels, I fly to the next bottle, and there forever drown her remembrance.

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