Sir _Char_. Ah, Madam, I am come--
Sir _Anth_. To shew your self a Coxcomb.
L. _Gal_. To tire me with Discourses of your Passion-- Fie, how this Curl fits!
[Looking in the Glass.
Sir _Char_. No, you shall hear no more of that ungrateful Subject.
Sir _Anth_. Son of a Whore, hear no more of Love, damn'd Rogue! Madam, by George, he lyes; he does come to speak of Love, and make Love, and to do Love, and all for Love--Not come to speak of Love, with a Pox! Owns, Sir, behave your self like a Man; be impudent, be saucy, forward, bold, touzing, and leud, d'ye hear, or I'll beat thee before her: why, what a Pox! [_Aside to him, he minds it not_.
Sir _Char_. Finding my Hopes quite lost in your unequal Favours to young _Wilding_, I'm quitting of the Town.
L. _Gal_. You will do well to do so--lay by that Necklace, I'll wear Pearl to day. [_To_ Clos.
Sir _Anth_. Confounded Blockhead!--by George, he lyes again, Madam. A Dog, I'll disinherit him. [_Aside_.] He quit the Town, Madam! no, not whilst your Ladyship is in it, to my Knowledge. He'll live in the Town, nay, in the Street where you live; nay, in the House; nay, in the very Bed, by George; I've heard him a thousand times swear it. Swear it now, Sirrah: look, look, how he stands now! Why, dear _Charles_, good Boy, swear a little, ruffle her, and swear, damn it, she shall have none but thee. [_Aside to him_.] Why, you little think, Madam, that this Nephew of mine is one of the maddest Fellows in all Devonshire.
L. _Gal_. Wou'd I cou'd see't, Sir.
Sir _Anth_. See't! look ye there, ye Rogue--Why, 'tis all his Fault, Madam. He's seldom sober; then he has a dozen Wenches in pay, that he may with the more Authority break their Windows. There's never a Maid within forty Miles of Meriwill-Hall to work a Miracle on, but all are Mothers.
He's a hopeful Youth, I'll say that for him.
Sir _Char_. How I have lov'd you, my Despairs shall witness: for I will die to purchase your Content.
[_She rises_.
Sir _Anth_. Die, a damn'd Rogue! Ay, ay, I'll disinherit him: A Dog, die, with a Pox! No, he'll be hang'd first, Madam.
Sir _Char_. And sure you'll pity me when I'm dead.
Sir _Anth_. A curse on him; pity, with a Pox. I'll give him ne'er a Souse.
L. _Gal_. Give me that Essence-bottle. [_To_ Clos.
Sir _Char_. But for a Recompence of all my Sufferings--
L. _Gal_. Sprinkle my Handkerchief with Tuberose. [_To_ Clos.
Sir _Char_. I beg a Favour you'd afford a Stranger.
L. _Gal_. Sooner, perhaps. What Jewel's that? [_To_ Clos.
_Clos_. One Sir _Charles Merwill_--
L. _Gal_. Sent, and you receiv'd without my Order!
No wonder that he looks so scurvily.
Give him the Trifle back to mend his Humour.
Sir _Anth_. I thank you, Madam, for that Reprimand. Look in that Glass, Sir, and admire that sneaking Coxcomb's Countenance of yours: a pox on him, he's past Grace, lost, gone: not a Souse, not a Groat; good b'ye to you, Sir. Madam, I beg your Pardon; the next time I come a wooing, it shall be for my self, Madam, and I have something that will justify it too; but as for this Fellow, if your Ladyship have e'er a small Page at leisure, I desire he may have Order to kick him down Stairs. A damn'd Rogue, to be civil now, when he shou'd have behav'd himself handsomely!
Not an Acre, not a Shilling--buy Sir Softhead.
[_Going out meets Wild, and returns_.]
Hah, who have we here, hum, the fine mad Fellow? so, so, he'll swinge him, I hope; I'll stay to have the pleasure of seeing it done.
_Enter_ Wilding, _brushes by Sir_ Charles.
_Wild_. I was sure 'twas Meriwill's Coach at Door.
[_Aside_.
Sir _Char_. Hah, _Wilding_!
Sir _Anth_. Ay, now, Sir, here's one will waken ye, Sir.
[_To Sir_ Char.
_Wild_. How now, Widow, you are always giving Audience to Lovers, I see.
Sir _Char_. You're very free, Sir.
_Wild_. I am always so in the Widow's Lodgings, Sir.
Sir _Anth_. A rare Fellow!
Sir _Char_. You will not do't elsewhere?
_Wild_. Not with so much Authority.
Sir _Anth_. An admirable Fellow! I must be acquainted with him.
Sir _Char_. Is this the Respect you pay Women of her Quality?
_Wild_. The Widow knows I stand not much upon Ceremonies.
Sir _Anth_. Gad, he shall be my Heir. [_Aside still_.
L. _Gal_. Pardon him, Sir, this is his Cambridge Breeding.
Sir _Anth_. Ay, so 'tis, so 'tis, that two Years there quite spoil'd him.
L. _Gal_. Sir, if you've any further Business with me, speak it; if not, I'm going forth.
Sir _Char_. Madam, in short--
Sir _Anth_. In short to a Widow, in short! quite lost.
Sir _Char_. I find you treat me ill for my Respect; And when I court you next, I will forget how very much I love you.
Sir _Anth_. Sir, I shall be proud of your farther Acquaintance; for I like, love, and honour you.
[_To_ Wild.
_Wild_. I'll study to deserve it, Sir.
Sir _Anth_. Madam, your Servant. A damn'd sneaking Dog, to be civil and modest with a Pox!