Chapter 41

_Enter Sir_ Timothy Treat-all, _follow’d by_ Tom Wilding bare, Sir_ Charles Meriwill, Foppington, _and Footman with a Cloke_.

Sir _Tim_. Trouble me no more: for I am resolv’d, deaf and obdurate, d’ye see, and so forth.

_Wild_. I beseech ye, Uncle, hear me.

Sir _Tim_. No.

_Wild_. Dear Uncle--

Sir _Tim_. No.

_Wild_. You will be mortify’d--

Sir _Tim_. No.

_Wild_. At least hear me out, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. No, I have heard you out too often, Sir, till you have talkt me out of many a fair Thousand; have had ye out of all the Bayliffs, Serjeants, and Constables Clutches about Town, Sir; have brought you out of all the Surgeons, Apothecaries, and pocky Doctors Hands, that ever pretended to cure incurable Diseases; and have crost ye out of the Books of all the Mercers, Silk-men, Exchange-men, Taylors, Shoemakers, and Sempstresses; with all the rest of the unconscionable City-tribe of the long Bill, that had but Faith enough to trust, and thought me Fool enough to pay.

Sir _Char_. But, Sir, consider, he’s your own Flesh and Blood.

Sir _Tim_. That’s more than I’ll swear.

Sir _Char_. Your only Heir.

Sir _Tim_. That’s more than you or any of his wise Associates can tell, Sir.

Sir _Char_. Why his wise Associates? Have you any Exception to the Company he keeps? This reflects on me and young _Dresswell_, Sir, Men both of Birth and Fortune.

Sir _Tim_. Why, good Sir _Charles Meriwill_, let me tell you, since you’ll have it out, That you and young _Dresswell_ are able to debauch, destroy, and confound all the young imitating Fops in Town.

Sir _Char_. How, Sir!

Sir _Tim_. Nay, never huff, Sir; for I have six thousand Pound a Year, and value no Man: Neither do I speak so much for your particular, as for the Company you keep, such Tarmagant Tories as these, [To Fop.] who are the very Vermin of a young Heir, and for one tickling give him a thousand bites.

_Fop_. Death! meaning me, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Yes, you, Sir. Nay, never stare, Sir; I fear you not; No Man’s hectoring signifies this--in the City, but the Constables: no body dares be saucy here, except it be in the King’s name.

Sir _Char_. Sir, I confess he was to blame.

Sir _Tim_. Sir _Charles_, thanks to Heaven, you may be leud, you have a plentiful Estate, may whore, drink, game, and play the Devil: your Uncle, Sir Anthony Meriwill, intends to give you all his Estate too. But for such Sparks as this, and my Fop in Fashion here, why, with what Face, Conscience, or Religion, can they be leud and vitious, keep their Wenches, Coaches, rich Liveries, and so forth, who live upon Charity, and the Sins of the Nation?

Sir _Char_. If he hath youthful Vices, he has Virtues too.

Sir _Tim_. Yes, he had, but I know not, you have bewitch’d him Amongst ye. [weeping. Before he fell to Toryism, he was a sober, civil Youth, and had some Religion in him, wou’d read ye Prayers Night and Morning with a laudable Voice, and cry Amen to ‘em; ‘twou’d have done one’s Heart good to have heard him--wore decent Clothes, was drunk but on Sundays and Holidays; and then I had Hopes of him. [_Still weeping_.

_Wild_. Ay, Heaven forgive me.

Sir _Char_. But, Sir, he’s now become a new Man, is casting off all his Women, is drunk not above five or six times a week, swears not above once in a quarter of an Hour, nor has not gam’d this two Days--

Sir _Tim_. ‘Twas because the Devil was in’s Pocket then.

Sir _Char_.--Begins to take up at Coffee-houses, talks gravely in the City, speaks scandalously of the Government, and rails most abominably against the Pope and the French King.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, ay, this shall not wheedle me out of one English Guinea; and so I told him yesterday.

_Wild_. You did so, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Yes; by a good Token you were witty upon me, and swore I lov’d and honoured the King no where but on his Coin.

Sir _Char_. Is it possible, Sir.

_Wild_. God forgive me, Sir; I confess I was a little overtaken.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, so it shou’d seem: for he mistook his own Chamber, and went to bed to my Maid’s.

Sir _Char_. How! to bed to your Maid’s! Sure, Sir, ‘tis scandal on him.

Sir _Tim_. No, no, he makes his brags on’t, Sir. Oh, that crying Sin of Boasting! Well fare, I say, the Days of old Oliver, he by a wholesom Act made it death to boast; so that then a Man might whore his Heart out, and no body the wiser.

Sir _Char_. Right, Sir, and then the Men pass’d for sober religious Persons, and the Women for as demure Saints--

Sir _Tim_. Ay, then there was no scandal; but now they do not only boast what they do, but what they do not.

_Wild_. I’ll take care that fault shall be mended, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, so will I, if Poverty has any Feats of Mortification; and so farewel to you, Sir. [Going.

_Wild_. Stay, Sir, are you resolv’d to be so cruel then, and ruin all my Fortunes now depending?

Sir _Tim_. Most religiously--

_Wild_. You are?

Sir _Tim_. I am.

_Wild_. Death, I’ll rob.

Sir _Tim_. Do and be hang’d.

_Wild_. Nay, I’ll turn Papist.

Sir _Tim_. Do and be damn’d.

Sir _Char_. Bless me, Sir, what a Scandal would that be to the Family of the _Treat-alls_!

Sir _Tim_. Hum! I had rather indeed he turn’d Turk or Jew, for his own sake; but as for scandalizing me, I defy it: My Integrity has been known ever since Forty one; I bought three Thousand a year in Bishops Lands, as ’.is well known, and lost it at the King’s return; for which I’m honour’d by the City. But for his farther Satisfaction, Consolation, and Destruction, know, That I Sir _Timothy Treat-all_, Knight and Alderman, do think my self young enough to marry, d’ye see, and will wipe your Nose with a Son and Heir of my own begetting, and so forth. [_Going away_.

_Wild_. Death! marry!

Sir _Char_. Patience, dear Tom, or thou’t spoil all.

_Wild_. Damn him, I’ve lost all Patience, and can dissemble no longer, though I lose all--Very good, Sir; harkye, I hope she’s young and handsome; or if she be not, amongst the numerous lusty-stomacht Whigs that daily nose your publick Dinners, some maybe found, that either for Money, Charity, or Gratitude, may requite your Treats. You keep open House to all the Party, not for Mirth, Generosity or good Nature, but for Roguery. You cram the Brethren, the pious City-Gluttons, with good Cheer, good Wine, and Rebellion in abundance, gormandizing all Comers and Goers, of all Sexes, Sorts, Opinions and Religions, young half-witted Fops, hot-headed Fools, and Malecontents: You guttle and fawn on all, and all in hopes of debauching the King’s Liege-people into Commonwealthsmen; and rather than lose a Convert, you’ll pimp for him. These are your nightly Debauches--Nay, rather than you shall want it, I’ll cuckold you my self in pure Revenge.

Sir _Tim_. How! Cuckold his own natural Uncle!

Sir _Char_. Oh, he cannot be so profane.

_Wild_. Profane! why he deny’d but now the having any share in me; and therefore ‘tis lawful. I am to live by my Wits, you say, and your old rich good-natur’d Cuckold is as sure a Revenue to a handsome young Cadet, as a thousand Pound a Year. Your tolerable Face and Shape is an Estate in the City, and a better Bank than your Six per Cent, at any time.

Sir _Tim_. Well, Sir, since Nature has furnisht you so well, you need but up and ride, show and be rich; and so your Servant, witty Mr. _Wilding_. [_Goes out. He looks after him_.

Sir _Char_. Whilst I am labouring another’s good, I quite neglect my own. This cursed, proud, disdainful Lady _Galliard_, is ever in my Head; she’s now at Church, I’m sure, not for Devotion, but to shew her Charms, and throw her Darts amongst the gazing Croud; and grows more vain by Conquest. I’m near the Church, and must step in, though it cost me a new Wound. [Wild, _stands pausing_.

_Wild_. I am resolv’d--Well, dear _Charles_, let’s sup together to night, and contrive some way to e reveng’d of this wicked Uncle of mine. I must leave thee now, for I have an Assignation here at Church.

Sir _Char_. Hah! at Church!

_Wild_. Ay, _Charles_ with the dearest She-Saint, and I hope Sinner.

Sir _Char_. What, at Church? Pox, I shall be discover’d now in my Amours. That’s an odd place for Love-Intrigues.

_Wild_. Oh, I am to pass for a sober, discreet Person to the Relations; but for my Mistress, she’s made of no such sanctify’d Materials; she is a Widow, _Charles_, young, rich, and beautiful.

Sir _Char_. Hah! if this shou’d prove my Widow, now. [_Aside_.

_Wild_. And though at her own dispose, yet is much govern’d by Honour, and a rigid Mother, who is ever preaching to her against the Vices of Youth, and t’other end of the Town Sparks; dreads nothing so much as her Daughter’s marrying a villanous Tory. So the young one is forc’d to dissemble Religion, the best Mask to hide a kind Mistress in.

Sir _Char_. This must be my Lady _Galliard_. [_Aside_.

_Wild_. There is at present some ill understanding between us; some damn’d Honourable Fop lays siege to her, which has made me ill received; and I having a new Intrigue elsewhere, return her cold Disdain, but now and then she crosses my Heart too violently to resist her. In one of these hot Fits I now am, and must find some occasion to speak to her.

Sir _Char_. By Heaven, it must be she--I am studying now, amongst all our She-Acquaintance, who this shou’d be.

_Wild_. Oh, this is of Quality to be conceal’d; but the dearest loveliest Hypocrite, white as Lillies, smooth as Rushes, and plump as Grapes after a Shower, haughty her Mein, her Eyes full of Disdain, and yet bewitching sweet; but when she loves soft, witty, wanton, all that charms a Soul, and but for now and then a fit of Honour, Oh, damn the Nonsense! wou’d be all my own.

Sir _Char_. ‘Tis she, by Heaven! [_Aside_.] Methinks this Widow shou’d prove a good Income to you, as things now stand between you and your Uncle.

_Wild_. Ah, _Charles_, but I am otherways dispos’d of. There is the most charming pretty thing in nature fallen in love with this Person of mine, a rich City-Heiress, _Charles_, and I have her in possession.

Sir _Char_. How can you love two at once? I’ve been as wild and as extravagant, as Youth and Wealth cou’d render me; but ne’er arrived to that degree of Leudness, to deal my Heart about: my Hours I might, but Love shou’d be intire.

_Wild_. Ah, _Charles_, two such bewitching Faces wou’d give thy Heart the lye:--But Love divides us, and I must into Church. Adieu till Night. [_Exit_.

Sir _Char_. And I must follow, to resolve my Heart in what it dreads to learn. Here, my Cloke. [_Takes his Cloke from his Man, and puts it on_.] Hah, Church is done! See, they are coming forth!

_Enter People cross the Stage, as from Church; amongst ‘em Sir_ Anthony Meriwill, _follow’d by Sir_ Timothy Treat-all.

Hah, my Uncle! He must not see me here. [_Throws his Cloke over his Face_.

Sir _Tim_. What my old Friend and Acquaintance, Sir Anthony Meriwill!

Sir _Anth_. Sir _Timothy Treat-all_!

Sir _Tim_. Why, how long have you been in Town, Sir?

Sir _Anth_. About three days, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Three days, and never came to dine with me! ‘tis unpardonable! What, you keep close to the Church, I see: You are for the Surplice still, old Orthodox you; the Times cannot mend you, I see.

Sir _Anth_. No, nor shall they mar me, Sir.

Sir _Char_. They are discoursing; I’ll pass by. [_Aside_. [_Ex. Sir_ Charles.

Sir _Anth_. As I take it, you came from Church too.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, needs must when the Devil drives. I go to save my Bacon, as they say, once a Month, and that too after the Porridge is serv’d up.

Sir _Anth_. Those that made it, Sir, are wiser than we. For my part, I love good wholesom Doctrine, that teaches Obedience to the King and Superiors, without railing at the Government, and quoting Scripture for Sedition, Mutiny and Rebellion. Why here was a jolly Fellow this Morning made a notable Sermon. By George, our Country-Vicars are mere Scholars to your Gentlemen Town-Parsons! Hah, how he handled the Text, and run Divisions upon’t! ‘twould make a Man sin with moderation, to hear how he claw’d away the Vices of the Town, Whoring, Drinking, and Conventicling, with the rest of the deadly number.

Sir _Tim_. Good lack! an he were so good at Whoring and Drinking, you’d best carry your Nephew, Sir _Charles Meriwill_, to Church; he wants a little documentizing that way.

Sir _Anth_. Hum! you keep your old wont still; a Man can begin no Discourse to you, be it of Prester John, but you still conclude with my Nephew.

Sir _Tim_. Good Lord! Sir Anthony, you need not be so purty; what I say, is the Discourse of the whole City, how lavishly you let him live, and give ill Examples to all young Heirs.

Sir _Anth_. The City! The City’s a grumbling, lying, dissatisfy’d City, and no wise or honest Man regards what it says. Do you, or any of the City, stand bound to his Scrivener or Taylor? He spends what I allow him, Sir, his own; and you’re a Fool, or Knave, chuse ye whether, to concern your self.

Sir _Tim_. Good lack! I speak but what wiser Men discourse.

Sir _Anth_. Wiser Men! wiser Coxcombs. What, they wou’d have me train my Nephew up, a hopeful Youth, to keep a Merchant’s Book, or send him to chop Logick in an University, and have him returned an arrant learned Ass, to simper, and look demure, and start at Oaths and Wenches, whilst I fell his Woods, and grant Leases: And lastly, to make good what I have cozen’d him of, force him to marry Mrs. Crump, the ill-favour’d Daughter of some Right Worshipful.--A Pox of all of such Guardians!

Sir _Tim_. Do, countenance Sin and Expenccs, do.

Sir _Anth_. What Sin, what Expences? He wears good Clothes, why, Trades-men get the more by him; he keeps his Coach, ‘tis for his Ease; A Mistress, ‘tis for his Pleasure; he games, ‘tis for his Diversion: And where’s the harm of this? is there ought else you can accuse him with?

Sir _Tim_. Yes,--a Pox upon him, he’s my Rival too. [_Aside_. Why then I’ll tell you, Sir, he loves a Lady.

Sir _Anth_. If that be a Sin, Heaven help the Wicked!

Sir _Tim_. But I mean honourably--

Sir _Anth_. Honourably! why do you know any Infirmity in him, why he shou’d not marry? [_Angrily_.

Sir _Tim_. Not I, Sir.

Sir _Anth_. Not you, Sir? why then you’re an Ass, Sir--But is this Lady young and handsom?

Sir _Tim_. Ay, and rich too, Sir.

Sir _Anth_. No matter for Money, so she love the Boy.

Sir _Tim_. Love him! No, Sir, she neither does, nor shall love him.

Sir _Anth_. How, Sir, nor shall love him! By _George_, but she shall, and lie with him too, if I please, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. How, Sir! lie with a rich City-Widow, and a Lady, and to be married to a fine Reverend old Gentleman within a day or two?

Sir _Anth_. His Name, Sir, his Name; I’ll dispatch him presently. [_Offers to draw_.

Sir _Tim_. How, Sir, dispatch him!--Your Servant, Sir. [_Offers to go_.

Sir _Anth_. Hold, Sir! by this abrupt departure, I fancy you the Boy’s Rival: Come, draw. [_Draws_.

Sir _Tim_. How, draw, Sir!

Sir _Anth_. Ay, draw, Sir; not my Nephew have the Widow!

Sir _Tim_. With all my Soul, Sir; I love and honour your Nephew. I his Rival! alas, Sir, I’m not so fond of Cuckoldom. Pray, Sir, let me see you and Sir _Charles_ at my House, I may serve him in this business; and so I take my leave, Sir--Draw quoth-a! Pox upon him for an old Tory-rory. [_Aside_.

[_Exit_.

_Enter as from Church, L_. Galliard, Closet, _and Footman_: Wilding _passes carelessly by her, Sir_ Charles Meriwill _following, wrapt up in his Cloke_.

Sir _Anth_. Who’s here? _Charles_ muffled in a Cloke peering after a Woman? My own Boy to a Hair! She’s handsom too. I’ll step aside; for I must see the meaning on’t. [_Goes aside_.

L. _Gal_. Bless me! how unconcern’d he pass’d!

_Clos_. He bow’d low, Madam.

L. _Gal_. But ‘twas in such a fashion, as exprest Indifferency, much worse than Hate from _Wilding_.

_Clos_. Your Ladyship has us’d him ill of late; yet if your Ladyship please, I’ll call him back.

L. _Gal_. I’ll die first--Hah, he’s going! Yet now I think on’t I have a Toy of his, which to express my scorn, I’ll give him back now--this Ring.

_Clos_. Shall I carry it, Madam?

L. _Gal_. You’ll not express Disdain enough in the Delivery; and you may call him back.

[Clos. _goes to_ Wild.

Sir _Char_. By Heaven, she’s fond of him. [_Aside_.

_Wild_. Oh, Mrs. Closet! is it you?--Madam, your Servant: By this Disdain, I fear your Woman, Madam, has mistaken her Man. Wou’d your Ladyship speak with me?

L. _Gal_. Yes.--But what? the God of Love instruct me. [_Aside_.

_Wild_. Command me quickly, Madam; for I have business.

L. _Gal_. Nay, then I cannot be discreet in Love. [_Aside_. --Your business once was Love, nor had no idle hours To throw away on any other thought; You lov’d, as if you had no other Faculties, As if you’d meant to gain eternal Bliss, By that Devotion only: And see how now you’re chang’d.

_Wild_. Not I, by Heaven; ‘tis you are only chang’d. I thought you’d lov’d me too, curse on the dull mistake! But when I beg’d to reap the mighty Joy That mutual Love affords, You turn’d me off from Honour, That Nothing, fram’d by some old sullen Maid, That wanted Charms to kindle Flames when young.

Sir _Anth_. By George, he’s i’th’ right. [_Aside_.

Sir _Char_. Death! can she hear this Language? [_Aside_.

L. _Gal_. How dare you name this to me any more? Have you forgot my Fortune, and my Youth, My Quality, and Fame?

_Wild_. No, by Heaven, all these increase my Flame.

L. _Gal_. Perhaps they might, but yet I wonder where You got the boldness to approach me with it.

_Wild_. Faith, Madam, from your own encouragement.

L. _Gal_. From mine! Heavens, what Contempt is this?

_Wild_. When first I paid my Vows, (good Heaven forgive me) They were for Honour all; But wiser you, thanks to your Mother’s care too, Knowing my Fortune an uncertain hope, My Life of Scandal, and my leud Opinion, Forbad me wish that way; ‘twas kindly urg’d; You cou’d not then forbid my Passion too, Nor did I ever from your Lips or Eyes Receive the cruel Sentence of my Death.

Sir _Anth_. Gad, a fine Fellow this!

L. _Gal_. To save my Life, I wou’d not marry thee.

_Wild_. That’s kindly said. But to save mine, thou’t do a kinder thing; --I know thou wo’t.

L. _Gal_. What, yield my Honour up! And after find it sacrific’d anew, And made the scorn of a triumphing Wife!

Sir _Anth_. Gad, she’s i’th’ right too! a noble Girl I’ll warrant her.

L. _Gal_. But you disdain to satisfy these fears; And like a proud and haughty Conqueror, Demand the Town, without the least Conditions.

Sir _Char_. By Heaven, she yields apace. [_Aside_.

_Sir. Anth_. Pox on’t, wou’d I had ne’er seen her; now I have Legions of small Cupids at Hot-cockles in my Heart.

_Wild_. Now I am pausing on that word Conditions. Thou say’st thou wou’t not have me marry thee; That is, as if I lov’d thee for thy Eyes And put ‘em out to hate thee; Or like our Stage-smitten Youth, who fall in Love with a Woman for acting finely, and by taking her off the Stage, deprive her of the only Charm she had, Then leave her to ill Luck.

Sir _Anth_. Gad, he’s i’th’ right again too! a rare Fellow!

_Wild_. For, Widow, know, hadst thou more Beauty, yet not all of ‘em were half so great a Charm as they not being mine.

Sir _Anth_. Hum! how will he make that out now?

_Wild_. The stealths of Love, the midnight kind Admittance, The gloomy Bed, the soft breath’d murmuring Passion; Ah, who can guess at Joys thus snatch’d by parcels? The difficulty makes us always wishing, Whilst on thy part, Fear makes still some resistance; And every Blessing seems a kind of Rape.

Sir _Anth_. H’as don’t!--A Divine Fellow that; just of my Religion. I am studying now whether I was never acquainted with his Mother. [L. Gal. _walks away_. Wild. _follows_.

L. _Gal_. Tempt me no more! what dull unwary Flame Possest me all this while! Confusion on thee, [_In Rage_. And all the Charms that dwell upon thy Tongue. Diseases ruin that bewitching Form, That with the soft feign’d Vows debaucht my Heart.

Sir _Char_. Heavens! can I yet endure! [_Aside_.

L. _Gal_. By all that’s good, I’ll marry instantly; Marry, and save my last Stake, Honour, yet, Or thou wilt rook me out of all at last.

_Wild_. Marry! thou canst not do a better thing; There are a thousand Matrimonial Fops, Fine Fools of Fortune, Good-natur’d Blockheads too, and that’s a wonder.

L. _Gal_. That will be manag’d by a Man of Wit.

_Wild_. Right.

L. _Gal_. I have an eye upon a Friend of yours.

_Wild_. A Friend of mine! then he must be my Cuckold.

Sir _Char_. Very fine! can I endure yet more? [_Aside_.

L. _Gal_. Perhaps it is your Uncle.

_Wild_. Hah, my Uncle! [_Sir_ Charles _makes up to ‘em_.

Sir _Anth_. Hah, my _Charles_! why, well said, _Charles_, he bore up briskly to her.

Sir _Char_. Ah, Madam, may I presume to tell you--

Sir _Anth_. Ah, Pox, that was stark naught! he begins like a Fore-man o’th’ Shop, to his Master’s Daughter.

_Wild_. How, _Charles Meriwill_ acquainted with my Widow!

Sir _Char_. Why do you wear that scorn upon your Face? I’ve nought but honest meaning in my Passion, Whilst him you favour so profanes your Beauties, In scorn of Marriage and Religious Rites, Attempts the ruin of your sacred Honour.

L. _Gal_. Hah, _Wilding_ boast my Love! [_Aside_.

Sir _Anth_. The Devil take him, my Nephew’s quite spoil’d! Why, what a Pox has he to do with Honour now?

L. _Gal_. Pray leave me, Sir.--

_Wild_. Damn it, since he knows all, I’ll boldly own my flame. You take a liberty I never gave you, Sir.

Sir _Char_. How, this from thee! nay, then I must take more. And ask you where you borrow’d that Brutality, T’ approach that Lady with your saucy Passion.

Sir _Anth_. Gad, well done, _Charles_! here must be sport anon.

_Wild_. I will not answer every idle Question.

Sir _Char_. Death, you dare not.

_Wild_. How, dare not!

Sir _Char_. No, dare not; for if you did--

_Wild_. What durst you, if I did?

Sir _Char_. Death, cut your Throat, Sir. [_Taking hold on him roughly_.

Sir _Anth_. Hold, hold, let him have fair play, and then curse him that parts ye. [_Taking ‘em asunder, they draw_.

L. _Gal_. Hold, I command ye, hold!

Sir _Char_. There rest my Sword to all Eternity. [_Lays his Sword at her Feet_.

L. _Gal_. Now I conjure ye both, by all your Honour, If you were e’er acquainted with that Virtue, To see my Face no more, Who durst dispute your Interest in me thus, As for a common Mistress, in your Drink.

[_She goes out, and all but_ Wild. _Sir_ Anth. _and_ _Sir Char, who stands sadly looking after her_.

Sir _Anth_. A Heavenly Girl!--Well, now she’s gone, by George, I am for disputing your Title to her by dint of Sword.

Sir _Char_. I wo’not fight.

_Wild_. Another time will decide it, Sir. [Wild, _goes out_.

Sir _Anth_. After your whining Prologue, Sir, who the Devil would have expected such a Farce?--Come, _Charles_, take up thy sword, _Charles_; and d’ye hear forget me this Woman.--

Sir _Char_. Forget her, Sir! there never was a thing so excellent!

Sir _Anth_. You lye, Sirrah, you lye, there’s a thousand As fair, as young, and kinder by this day. We’ll into th’ Country, _Charles_, where every Grove Affords us rustick Beauties, That know no Pride nor Painting, And that will take it and be thankful, _Charles_; Fine wholesom Girls that fall like ruddy Fruit, Fit for the gathering, _Charles_.

Sir _Char_. Oh, Sir, I cannot relish the coarse Fare. But what’s all this, Sir, to my present Passion?

Sir _Anth_. Passion, Sir! you shall have no Passion, Sir.

Sir _Char_. No Passion, Sir! shall I have Life and Breath?

Sir _Anth_. It may be not, Sirrah, if it be my will and pleasure. --Why how now! saucy Boys be their own Carvers?

_Sir Char_. Sir, I am all Obedience. [Bowing and sighing.

Sir _Anth_. Obedience! Was ever such a Blockhead! Why then, if I command it, you will not love this Woman?

Sir _Char_. No, Sir.

Sir _Anth_. No, Sir! But I say, Yes, Sir, love her me; and love her me like a Man too, or I’ll renounce ye, Sir.

Sir _Char_. I’ve try’d all ways to win upon her Heart, Presented, writ, watcht, fought, pray’d, kneel’d, and wept.

Sir _Anth_. Why, there’s it now; I thought so: kneel’d and wept! a Pox upon thee--I took thee for a prettier Fellow-- You shou’d have huft and bluster’d at her door, Been very impudent and saucy, Sir, Leud, ruffling, mad; courted at all hours and seasons; Let her not rest, nor eat, nor sleep, nor visit. Believe me, _Charles_, Women love Importunity. Watch her close, watch her like a Witch, Boy, Till she confess the Devil in her,--Love.

Sir _Char_. I cannot, Sir, Her Eyes strike such an awe into my Soul--

Sir _Anth_. Strike such a Fiddle-stick.--Sirrah, I say, do’t; what, you can towse a Wench as handsomely--You can be leud enough upon occasion. I know not the Lady, nor her Fortune; but I’m resolv’d thou shalt have her, with practising a little Courtship of my Mode.--Come--Come, my Boy _Charles_, since thou must needs be doing, I’ll shew thee how to go a Widow-wooing.