Chapter 1

_Enter Sir_ Timothy Tawdrey, Sham, _and_ Sharp.

Sir _Tim_. Hereabouts is the House wherein dwells the Mistress of my Heart; for she has Money, Boys, mind me, Money in abundance, or she were not for me--The Wench her self is good-natur’d, and inclin’d to be civil: but a Pox on’t--she has a Brother, a conceited Fellow, whom the World mistakes for a fine Gentleman; for he has travell’d, talks Languages, bows with a _bonne mine_, and the rest; but, by Fortune, he shall entertain you with nothing but Words--

_Sham_. Nothing else!--

Sir _Tim_. No--He’s no Country-Squire, Gentlemen, will not game, whore; nay, in my Conscience, you will hardly get your selves drunk in his Company--He treats A-la-mode, half Wine, half Water, and the rest--But to the Business, this Fellow loves his Sister dearly, and will not trust her in this leud Town, as he calls it, without him; and hither he has brought her to marry me.

_Sham_. A Pox upon him for his Pains--

Sir _Tim_. So say I--But my Comfort is, I shall be as weary of her, as the best Husband of ‘em all. But there’s Conveniency in it; besides, the Match being as good as made up by the old Folks in the Country, I must submit--The Wench I never saw yet, but they say she’s handsom--But no matter for that, there’s Money, my Boys.

_Sharp_. Well, Sir, we will follow you--but as dolefully as People do their Friends to the Grave, from whence they’re never to return, at least not the same Substance; the thin airy Vision of a brave good Fellow, we may see thee hereafter, but that’s the most.

Sir _Tim_. Your Pardon, sweet _Sharp_, my whole Design in it is to be Master of my self, and with part of her Portion to set up my Miss, _Betty Flauntit_; which, by the way, is the main end of my marrying; the rest you’ll have your shares of--Now I am forc’d to take you up Suits at treble Prizes, have damn’d Wine and Meat put upon us, ‘cause the Reckoning is to be book’d: But ready Money, ye Rogues! What Charms it has! makes the Waiters fly, Boys, and the Master with Cap in Hand--excuse what’s amiss, Gentlemen--Your Worship shall command the best--and the rest--How briskly the Box and Dice dance, and the ready Money submits to the lucky Gamester, and the gay Wench consults with every Beauty to make her self agreeable to the Man with ready Money! In fine, dear Rogues, all things are sacrific’d to its Power; and no Mortal conceives the Joy of Argent Content. ‘Tis this powerful God that makes me submit to the Devil, Matrimony; and then thou art assur’d of me, my stout Lads of brisk Debauch.

_Sham_. And is it possible you can be ty’d up to a Wife? Whilst here in _London_, and free, you have the whole World to range in, and like a wanton Heifer, eat of every Pasture.

Sir _Tim_. Why, dost think I’ll be confin’d to my own dull Enclosure? No, I had rather feed coarsely upon the boundless Common; perhaps two or three days I may be in love, and remain constant, but that’s the most.

_Sharp_. And in three Weeks, should you wed a _Cynthia_, you’d be a Monster.

Sir _Tim_. What, thou meanest a Cuckold, I warrant. God help thee! But a Monster is only so from its Rarity, and a Cuckold is no such strange thing in our Age.

_Enter_ Bellmour _and_ Friendlove.

But who comes here? _Bellmour!_ Ah, my little dear Rogue! how dost thou? --_Ned Friendlove_ too! Dear Lad, how dost thou too? Why, welcome to Town, i’faith, and I’m glad to see you both.

_Friend_. Sir _Timothy Tawdrey!_--

Sir _Tim_. The same, by Fortune, dear _Ned_: And how, and how, Man, how go Matters?

_Friend_. Between who, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Why, any Body, Man; but, by Fortune, I’m overjoy’d to meet thee: But where dost think I was going?

_Friend_. Is’t possible one shou’d divine?

Sir _Tim_. Is’t possible you shou’d not, and meet me so near your Sister’s Lodgings? Faith, I was coming to pay my Respects and Services, and the rest--Thou know’st my meaning--The old Business of the Silver-World, _Ned_; by Fortune, it’s a mad Age we live in, _Ned_; and here be so many--wicked Rogues, about this damn’d leud Town, that, ’.aith, I am fain to speak in the vulgar modish Style, in my own Defence, and railly Matrimony and the rest.

_Friend_. Matrimony!--I hope you are so exactly refin’d a Man of the Town, that you will not offer once to think of so dull a thing: let that alone for such cold Complexions as _Bellmour_ here, and I, that have not attain’d to that most excellent faculty of Keeping yet, as you, Sir _Timothy_, have done; much to your Glory, I assure you.

Sir _Tim_. Who, I, Sir? You do me much Honour: I must confess I do not find the softer Sex cruel; I am received as well as another Man of my Parts.

_Friend_. Of your Money you mean, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Why, ‘faith, _Ned_, thou art i’th’ right; I love to buy my Pleasure: for, by Fortune, there’s as much pleasure in Vanity and Variety, as any Sins I know; What think’st thou, _Ned?_

_Friend_. I am not of your Mind, I love to love upon the square; and that I may be sure not to be cheated with false Ware, I present ‘em nothing but my Heart.

Sir _Tim_. Yes, and have the Consolation of seeing your frugal huswifery Miss in the Pit, at a Play, in a long Scarf and Night-gown, for want of Points, and Garniture.

_Friend_. If she be clean, and pretty, and drest in Love, I can excuse the rest, and so will she.

Sir _Tim_. I vow to Fortune, _Ned_, thou must come to _London_, and be a little manag’d: ‘slife, Man, shouldst thou talk so aloud in good Company, thou wouldst be counted a strange Fellow. Pretty--and drest with Love--a fine Figure, by Fortune: No, _Ned_, the painted Chariot gives a Lustre to every ordinary Face, and makes a Woman look like Quality; Ay, so like, by Fortune, that you shall not know one from t’other, till some scandalous, out-of-favour’d laid-aside Fellow of the Town, cry--Damn her for a Bitch--how scornfully the Whore regards me--She has forgot since _Jack_--such a one, and I, club’d for the keeping of her, when both our Stocks well manag’d wou’d not amount to above seven Shillings six Pence a week; besides now and then a Treat of a Breast of Mutton from the next Cook’s.--Then the other laughs, and crys--Ay, rot her--and tells his Story too, and concludes with, Who manages the Jilt now; Why, faith, some dismal Coxcomb or other, you may be sure, replies the first. But, _Ned_, these are Rogues, and Rascals, that value no Man’s Reputation, because they despise their own. But faith, I have laid aside all these Vanities, now I have thought of Matrimony; but I desire my Reformation may be a Secret, because, as you know, for a Man of my Address, and the rest--’tis not altogether so Jantee.

_Friend_. Sir, I assure you, it shall be so great a Secret for me, that I will never ask you who the happy Woman is, that’s chosen for this great Work of your Conversion.

Sir _Tim_. Ask me--No, you need not, because you know already.

_Friend_. Who, I? I protest, Sir _Timothy_--

Sir _Tim_. No Swearing, dear _Ned_, for ‘tis not such a Secret, but I will trust my Intimates: these are my Friends, _Ned_; pray know them--This Mr. _Sham_, and this--by Fortune, a very honest Fellow [_Bows to ‘em_] Mr. _Sharp_, and may be trusted with a Bus’ness that concerns you as well as me.

_Friend_. Me! What do you mean, Sir _Timothy_?

Sir _Tim_. Why, Sir, you know what I mean.

_Friend_. Not I, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. What, not that I am to marry your Sister _Celinda_?

_Friend_. Not at all.

_Bel_. O, this insufferable Sot! [_Aside_.

_Friend_. My Sister, Sir, is very nice.

Sir _Tim_. That’s all one, Sir, the old People have adjusted the matter, and they are the most proper for a Negotiation of that kind, which saves us the trouble of a tedious Courtship.

_Friend_. That the old People have agreed the matter, is more than I know.

Sir _Tim_. Why, Lord, Sir, will you persuade me to that? Don’t you know that your Father (according to the Method in such Cases, being certain of my Estate) came to me thus--Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_,--you are a young Gentleman, and a Knight, I knew your Father well, and my right worshipful Neighbour, our Estates lie together; therefore, Sir, I have a desire to have a near Relation with you--At which, I interrupted him, and cry’d--Oh Lord, Sir, I vow to Fortune, you do me the greatest Honour, Sir, and the rest--

_Bel_. I can endure no more; he marry fair _Celinda_!

_Friend_. Prithee let him alone. [_Aside_.

Sir _Tim_. To which he answer’d--I have a good Fortune--have but my Son _Ned_, and this Girl, call’d _Celinda_, whom I will make a Fortune, sutable to yours; your honoured Mother, the Lady _Tawdrey_, and I, have as good as concluded the Match already. To which I (who, though I say it, am well enough bred for a Knight) answered the Civility thus--I vow to Fortune, Sir--I did not swear, but cry’d--I protest, Sir, _Celinda_, deserves--no, no, I lye again, ‘twas merits--Ay, _Celinda_--merits a much better Husband than I.

_Friend_. You speak more Truth than you are aware of. [_Aside_.] Well, Sir, I’ll bring you to my Sister; and if she likes you, as well as My Father does, she’s yours; otherwise, I have so much Tenderness for her, as to leave her Choice free.

Sir _Tim_. Oh, Sir, you compliment. _Alons, Entrons.

[Exeunt_.