Sir _Char_. Hah, Gad, 'twas a Spark!--What, vanisht! hah--
Sir _Anth_. Nay, nay, Sir, I am for ye.
Sir _Char_. Are you so, Sir? and I am for the Widow, Sir, and--
[_Just as they are passing at each other_, Closet _enters with a Candle_.
Hah, why, what have we here?--my nown Flesh and Blood?
[_Embracing his Uncle_.
Sir _Anth_. Cry mercy, Sir! Pray, how fell we out?
Sir _Char_. Out, Sir! Prithee where's my Rival? where's the Spark, the-- Gad, I took thee for an errant Rival: Where is he?
[_Searching about_.
L. _Gal_. Whom seek ye, Sir, a Man, and in my Lodgings?
[_Angrily_.
_Clos_. A Man! Merciful, what will this scandalous lying World come to?
Here's no Man.
Sir _Char_. Away, I say, thou damn'd Domestick Intelligence, that comest out every half hour with some fresh Sham--No Man!--What, 'twas an Appointment only, hum,--which I shall now make bold to unappoint, render null, void, and of none effect. And if I find him here, [_Searches about_.] I shall very civilly and accidentally, as it were, being in perfect friendship with him--pray, mark that--run him through the Lungs.
L. _Gal_. Oh, whata Coward's Guilt! what mean you, Sir?
Sir _Char_. Mean? why I am obstinately bent to ravish thee, thou hypocritical Widow, make thee mine by force, that so I have no obligation to thee, and consequently use thee scurvily with a good Conscience.
Sir _Anth_. A most delicate Boy! I'll warrant him as lend as the best of'em, God grant him Life and Health. [Aside.
L. _Gal_. 'Tis late, and I entreat your absence, Sir: These are my Hours of Prayer, which this unseasonable Visit has disturb'd.
Sir _Char_. Prayer! No more of that, Sweetheart; for let me tell you, your Prayers are heard. A Widow of your Youth and Complexion can be praying for nothing so late, but a good Husband; and see, Heaven has sent him just in the crit--critical minute, to supply your Occasions.
Sir _Anth_. A Wag, an arch Wag; he'll learn to make Lampoons presently.
I'll not give Sixpence from him, though to the poor of the Parish.
Sir _Char_. Come, Widow, let's to Bed.
[Pulls her, she is angry.
L. _Gal_. Hold, Sir, you drive the Jest too far; And I am in no humour now for Mirth.
Sir _Char_. Jest: Gad, ye lye, I was never in more earnest in all my Life.
Sir _Anth_. He's in a heavenly humour, thanks to good Wine, good Counsel, and good Company.
[_Getting nearer the Door still_.
L. _Gal_. What mean you, Sir? what can my Woman think to see me treated thus?
Sir _Char_. Well thought on! Nay, we'll do things decently, d'ye see-- Therefore, thou sometimes necessary Utensil, withdraw.
[_Gives her to Sir_ Anth.
Sir _Anth_. Ay, ay, let me alone to teach her her Duty.
[_Pushes her out, and goes out_.
L. _Gal_. Stay, Closet, I command ye.
--What have you seen in me shou'd move you to this rudeness?
[_To Sir_ Char.
Sir _Char_. No frowning; for by this dear Night, 'tis Charity, care of your Reputation, Widow; and therefore I am resolv'd no body shall lie with you but my self. You have dangerous Wasps buzzing about your Hive, Widow--mark that--[_She flings from him_.] Nay, no parting but upon terms, which, in short, d'ye see, are these: Down on your Knees, and swear me heartily, as Gad shall judge your Soul, d'ye see, to marry me to morrow.
L. _Gal_. To morrow! Oh, I have urgent business then.
Sir _Char_. So have I. Nay, Gad, an you be for the nearest way to the Wood, the sober discreet way of loving, I am sorry for ye, look ye.
[_He begins to undress_.
L. _Gal_. Hold, Sir, what mean you?
Sir _Char_. Only to go to Bed, that's all.
[_Still undressing_.
L. _Gal_. Hold, hold, or I'll call out.
Sir _Char_. Ay, do, call up a Jury of your Female Neighbours, they'll be for me, d'ye see, bring in the Bill Ignoramus, though I am no very true blue Protestant neither; therefore dispatch, or--
L. _Gal_. Hold, are you mad? I cannot promise you to night.
Sir _Char_. Well, well, I'll be content with Performance then to night, and trust you for your Promise till to morrow.
Sir _Anth_. [_peeping_.] Ah, Rogue! by George, he out-does my Expectations of him.
L. _Gal_. What Imposition's this! I'll call for help.
_Sir. Char_. You need not, you'll do my business better alone.
[_Pulls her_.
L. _Gal_. What shall I do? how shall I send him hence? [_Aside_.
Sir _Anth_. He shall ne'er drink small Beer more, that's positive; I'll burn all's Books too, they have help'd to spoil him; and sick or well, sound or unsound, Drinking shall be his Diet, and Whoring his Study.
[_Aside, peeping unseen_.
Sir _Char_. Come, come, no pausing; your Promise, or I'll to Bed.
[_Offers to pull off his Breeches, having pulled off almost all the rest of his Clothes_.
L. _Gal_. What shall I do? here is no Witness near: And to be rid of him I'll promise him; he'll have forgot it in his sober Passion. [_Aside_.
Hold, I do swear I will-- [_He fumbling to undo his Breeches_.
Sir _Char_. What?