Sir _Tim_. Yes, yes, Madam, there are honest, discreet, religious, and true Protestant Knights in the City, that wou'd be proud to dignify and distinguish so worthy a Gentlewoman.
[Bowing and smiling.
_Bet_. Look to your hits, and take fortune by the forelock, Madam.
[_Aside_.
--Alas, Madam, no Knight, and poor too!
Sir _Tim_. As a Tory Poet.
_Bet_. Well, Madam, take Comfort; if the worst come to the worst, you have Estate enough for both.
_Dia_. Ay, Betty, were he but honest, Betty.
[_Weeping_.
Sir _Tim_. Honest! I think he will not steal; but for his Body, the Lord have mercy upon't, for he has none.
_Dia_. 'Tis evident, I am betray'd, abus'd; H'as lookt and sigh'd, and talkt away my Heart; H'as sworn, and vow'd, and flatter'd me to ruin.
[_Weeping_.
Sir _Tim_. A small fault with him; he has flatter'd and sworn me out of many a fair Thousand: why, he has no more Conscience than a Politician, nor no more Truth than a Narrative (under the Rose).
_Dia_. Is there no Truth nor Honesty i'th' World?
Sir _Tim_. Troth, very little, and that lies all i'th' City amongst us sober Magistrates.
_Dia_. Were I a Man, how wou'd I be reveng'd!
Sir _Tim_. Your Ladyship might do it better as you are were I worthy to advise you.
_Dia_. Name it.
Sir _Tim_. Why, by marrying your Ladyship's most assur'd Friend, and most humble Servant, _Timothy Treat-all_ of London, Alderman.
[_Bowing_.
_Bet_. Ay, this is something, Mistress; here's Reason.
_Dia_. But I have given my Faith and Troth to _Wilding, Betty_.
Sir _Tim_. Faith and Troth! We stand upon neither Faith nor Troth in the City, Lady. I have known an Heiress married and bedded, and yet with the Advice of the wiser Magistrates, has been unmarried and consummated anew with another, so it stands with our Interest: 'tis Law by Magna Charta.
Nay, had you married my ungracious Nephew, we might by this our Magna Charta have hang'd him for a Rape.
_Dia_. What, though he had my Consent?
Sir _Tim_. That's nothing, he had not ours.
_Dia_. Then shou'd I marry you by stealth, the Danger wou'd be the same.
Sir _Tim_. No, no, Madam, we never accuse one another; 'tis the poor Rogues, the Tory Rascals we always hang. Let 'em accuse me if they please; alas, I come off hand-smooth with Ignoramus.
_Enter_ Jervice.
_Jer_. Sir, there's such a calling for your Worship! They are all very merry, the Glasses go briskly about.
Sir _Tim_. Go, go, I'll come when all the Healths are past; I love no Healths.
_Jer_. They are all over, Sir, and the Ladies are for dancing; so they are all adjourning from the Dining-room hither, as more commodious for that Exercise. I think they're coming, Sir.
Sir _Tim_. Hah, coming! Call _Sensure_ to wait on the Lady to her Apartment.--
[_Enter_ Sensure.]
And, Madam, I do most heartily recommend my most humble Address to your most judicious Consideration, hoping you will most vigorously, and with all your might, maintain the Rights and Privileges of the Honourable City; and not suffer the Force or Persuasion of any Arbitrary Lover whatsoever, to subvert their antient and Fundamental Laws, by seducing and forcibly bearing away so rich and so illustrious a Lady: and, Madam, we will unanimously stand by you with our Lives and Fortunes.--This I learnt from a Speech at the Election of a Burgess. [_Aside_.
[_Leads her to the Door; She goes out with_ Betty _and_ Sensure.
_Enter Musick playing, Sir_ Anthony Meriwill _dancing with a Lady in his Hand, Sir_ Charles with Lady_ Galliard, _several other Women and Men_.
Sir _Anth_. [_singing_.]
Philander _was a jolly Swain, And lov'd by ev'ry Lass; Whom when he met along the Plain, He laid upon the Grass.
And here he kist, and there he play'd With this and then the t'other, Till every wanton smiling Maid At last became a Mother.
And to her Swain, and to her Swain, The Nymph begins to yield; Ruffle, and breathe, then to't again, Thou'rt Master of the Field_.
[Clapping Sir _Char_, on the back.
Sir _Char_. And if I keep it not, say I'm a Coward, Uncle.
Sir _Anth_. More Wine there, Boys, I'll keep the Humour up.
[_Enter Bottles and Glasses_.
Sir _Tim_. How! young Meriwill so close to the Widow--Madam-- [_Addressing himself to her. Sir_ Char. _puts him by_.
Sir _Char_. Sir Timothy, why, what a Pox dost thou bring that damn'd Puritanical, Schismatical, Fanatical, Small-beer-Face of thine into good Company? Give him a full Glass to the Widow's Health.
Sir _Tim_. O lack, Sir _Charles_, no Healths for me, I pray.
Sir _Char_. Hark ye, leave that cozening, canting, sanctify'd Sneer of yours, and drink ye me like a sober loyal Magistrate, all those Healths you are behind, from his sacred Majesty, whom God long preserve, with the rest of the Royal Family, even down to this wicked Widow, whom Heaven soon convert from her leud designs upon my Body.
[_Pulling Sir_ Tim. _to kneel_.
Sir _Anth_. A rare Boy! he shall have all my Estate.
Sir _Tim_. How, the Widow a leud design upon his Body! Nay, then I am jealous. [_Aside_.
L. _Gal_. I a leud design upon your Body; for what, I wonder?
Sir _Char_. Why, for villanous Matrimony.
L. _Gal_. Who, I?