Chapter 7

_Enter Sir_ Timothy Tawdrey, Sham _and_ Sharp.

Sir _Tim_. Now, _Sham_, art not thou a damn’d lying Rogue, to make me saunter up and down the _Mall_ all this Morning, after a Woman that thou know’st in thy Conscience was not likely to be there?

_Sham_. Why, Sir--if her Maid will be a jilting Whore, how can I help it?--_Sharp_, thou know’st we presented her handsomly, and she protested she’d do’t.

_Sharp_. Ay, ay, Sir: But the Devil a Maid we saw. [_Aside_.

_Sham_. Sir, it may be Things have so fallen out, that she could not possibly come.

Sir _Tim_. Things! a Pox of your Tricks--Well, I see there’s no trusting a poor Devil--Well, what Device will your Rogueship find out to cheat me next?

_Sham_. Prithee help me out at a dead lift, _Sharp_. [_Aside_.

_Sharp_. Cheat you, Sir!--if I ben’t reveng’d on this She-Counsellor of the Patching and Painting, this Letter-in of Midnight Lovers, this Receiver of Bribes for stol’n Pleasures; may I be condemn’d never to make love to any thing of higher Quality.

Sir _Tim_. Nay, nay, no threatning, _Sharp_; it may be she’s innocent yet--Give her t’other Bribe, and try what that will do. [_Gives him Money_.

_Sham_. No, Sir, I’ll have no more to do with frail Woman, in this Case; I have a surer way to do your Business.

_Enter_ Page _with a Letter_.

Sir _Tim_. Is not that _Bellmour’s_ Page?

_Sharp_. It is, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, the Rogue’s looking for me; he has a Challenge in his hand too.

_Sham_. No matter, Sir, huff it out.

Sir _Tim_. Prithee do thee huff him, thou know’st the way on’t.

_Sham_. What’s your Bus’ness with Sir _Timothy_, Sir?

_Page_. Mine, Sir, I don’t know the Gentleman; pray which is he?

Sir _Tim_. I, I, ‘tis so--Pox on him.

_Sharp_. Well, Boy, I am he--What--Your Master.

_Page_. My Master, Sir--

_Sharp_. Are not you _Bellmour’s_ Page?

_Page_. Yes, Sir.

_Sharp_. Well, your News.

_Page_. News, Sir? I know of none, but of my Master’s being this Morning--

Sir _Tim_. Ay, there it is--behind _Southampton_ House.

_Page_. Married this Morning.

Sir _Tim_. How! Married! ‘Slife, has he serv’d me so?

_Sham_. The Boy is drunk--_Bellmour_ married!

_Page_. Yes, indeed, to the Lady _Diana_.

Sir _Tim_. _Diana!_ Mad, by Fortune; what _Diana_?

_Page_. Niece to the Lord _Plotwell_.

Sir _Tim_. Come hither, Boy--Art thou sure of this?

_Page_. Sir, I am sure of it; and I am going to bespeak Musick for the Ball anon.

Sir _Tim_. What hast thou there--a Letter to the Divine _Celinda_? A dainty Boy--there’s Money for to buy thee Nickers.

_Page_. I humbly thank you. [_Exit_.

_Sharp_. Well, Sir, if this be true, _Celinda_ will be glad of you again.

Sir. _Tim_. Ay, but I will have none of her--For, look you, _Sham_, there is but two sorts of Love in this World--Now I am sure the Rogue did love her; and since it was not to marry her, it was for the thing you wot on, as appears by his writing to her now--But yet, I will not believe what this Boy said, till I see it.

_Sham_. Faith, Sir, I have thought of a thing, that may both clear your doubt, and give us a little Mirth.

Sir _Tim_. I conceive thee.

_Sham_. I know y’are quick of Apprehension, Sir _Timothy_.

Sir _Tim_. O, your Servant, dear _Sham_--But to let thee see, I am none of the dullest, we are to Jig it in Masquerade this Evening, hah.

_Sham_. Faith, Sir, you have it, and there you may have an Opportunity to court _Bellmour’s_ Sister.

Sir _Tim_. ‘Tis a good Motion, and we will follow it; send to the Duke’s House, and borrow some Habits presently.

_Sham_. I’ll about it, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Make haste to my Lodging--But hark ye--not a word of this to _Betty Flauntit_, she’ll be up in Arms these two Days, if she go not with us; and though I think the fond Devil is true to me, yet it were worse than Wedlock, if I should be so to her too.

_Tho Whores in all things else the Mastery get, In this alone, like Wives, they must submit_.

Exeunt.