_Dres_. That's well--The sanctify'd Jilt professes Innocence, yet has the Badge of her Occupation about her Neck.
[_Pulls off the Coat_.
_Sen_. Ah, Misfortune, I have mistook his Worship's Coat for my Gown.
[_A little Book drops out of her Bosom_.
_Dres_. What have we here? A Sermon preacht by Richard Baxter, Divine.
Gad a mercy, Sweetheart, thou art a hopeful Member of the true Protestant Cause.
_Sen_. Alack, how the Saints may be scandaliz'd! I went but to tuck his Worship up.
_Dres_. And comment upon the Text a little, which I suppose may be, increase and multiply--Here, gag, and bind her.
[_Exit_ Dres.
_Sen_. Hold, hold, I am with Child!
_Lab_. Then you'll go near to miscarry of a Babe of Grace.
_Enter_ Wild. Fop. _and others, leading in Sir_ Timothy _in his Night-gown and Night-Gap_.
Sir _Tim_. Gentlemen, why, Gentlemen, I beseech you use a Conscience in what you do, and have a feeling in what you go about--Pity my Age.
_Wild_. Damn'd beggarly Conscience, and needless Pity--
Sir _Tim_. Oh, fearful--But, Gentlemen, what is't you design? is it a general Massacre, pray? or am I the only Person aim'd at as a Sacrifice for the Nation? I know, and all the World knows, how many Plots have been laid against my self, both by Men, Women, and Children, the diabolical Emissaries of the Pope.
_Wild_. How, Sirrah! [_Fiercely, he starts_.
Sir _Tim_. Nay, Gentlemen, not but I love and honour his Holiness with all my Soul; and if his Grace did but know what I've done for him, d'ye see--
_Fop_. You done for the Pope, Sirrah! Why, what have you done for the Pope?
Sir _Tim_. Why, Sir, an't like ye, I have done you very great Service, very great Service; for I have been, d'ye see, in a small Tryal I had, the cause and occasion of invalidating the Evidence to that degree, that I suppose no Jury in Christendom will ever have the Impudence to believe 'em hereafter, shou'd they swear against his Holiness and all the Conclave of Cardinals.
_Wild_. And yet you plot on still, cabal, treat, and keep open Debauch, for all the Renegado-Tories and old Commonwealthsmen to carry on the good Cause.
Sir _Tim_. Alas, what signifies that! You know, Gentlemen, that I have such a strange and natural Agility in turning--I shall whip about yet, and leave 'em all in the Lurch.
_Wild_. 'Tis very likely; but at this time we shall not take your Word for that.
Sir _Tim_. Bloody-minded Men, are you resolv'd to assassinate me then?
_Wild_. You trifle, Sir, and know our Business better, than to think we come to take your Life, which wou'd not advantage a Dog, much less any Party or Person--Come, come, your Keys, your Keys.
_Fop_. Ay, ay, discover, discover your Money, Sir, your ready--
Sir _Tim_. Money, Sir, good lack, is that all? [_Smiling on 'em_.]
Why, what a Beast was I, not knowing of your coming, to put out all my Money last Week to Alderman Draw-tooth? Alack, alack, what shift shall I make now to accommodate you?--But if you please to come again to morrow--
_Fop_. A shamming Rogue; the right Sneer and Grin of a dissembling Whig.
Come, come, deliver, Sir; we are for no Rhetorick but ready Money.
[_Aloud and threatning_.
Sir _Tim_. Hold, I beseech you, Gentlemen, not so loud; for there is a Lord, a most considerable Person, and a Stranger, honours my House to night; I wou'd not for the world his Lordship shou'd be disturb'd.
_Wild_. Take no care for him, he's fast bound and all his Retinue.
Sir _Tim_. How, bound! my Lord bound, and all his People! Undone, undone, disgrac'd! What will the Polanders say, that I shou'd expose their Embassador to this Disrespect and Affront?
_Wild_. Bind him, and take away his Keys.
[_They bind him hand and foot, and take his Keys out of his Bosom. Ex. all_.
Sir _Tim_. Ay, ay, what you please, Gentlemen, since my Lord's bound--Oh, what Recompence can I make for so unhospitable Usage? I am a most unfortunate Magistrate: hah, who's there, _Jervice_? Alas, art thou here too? What, canst not speak? but 'tis no matter and I were dumb too; for what Speech or Harangue will serve to beg my Pardon of my Lord?--And then my Heiress, _Jervice_, ay, my rich Heiress, why, she'll be ravisht: Oh Heavens, ravisht! The young Rogues will have no Mercy, _Jervice_; nay, perhaps as thou say'st, they'll carry her away.--Oh, that thought! Gad, I rather the City-Charter were lost.
[_Enter some with Bags of Money_.
--Why, Gentlemen, rob like Christians, Gentlemen.
_Fop_. What, do you mutter, Dog?
Sir _Tim_. Not in the least, Sir, not in the least; only a Conscience, Sir, in all things does well--Barbarous Rogues.
[_They go out all again_.]
Here's your arbitrary Power, _Jervice_; here's the Rule of the Sword now for you: These are your Tory Rogues, your tantivy Roysters; but we shall cry quits with you, Rascals, ere long; and if we do come to our old Trade of Plunder and Sequestration, we shall so handle ye--we'll spare neither Prince, Peer, nor Prelate. Oh, I long to have a slice at your fat Church-men, your Crape-Gownorums.
_Enter_ Wild. Dresswell, Laboir, _and the rest, with more Bags_.
_Wild_. A Prize, a Prize, my Lads, in ready Guineas; Contribution, my beloved.
_Dres_. Nay, then 'tis lawful Prize, in spite of Ignoramus and all his Tribe--What hast thou here?
[_To_ Fop. _who enters with a Bag full of Papers_.
_Fop_. A whole Bag of Knavery, damn'd Sedition, Libels, Treason, Successions, Rights and Privileges, with a new-fashion'd Oath of Abjuration, call'd the Association.--Ah, Rogue, what will you say when these shall be made publick?
Sir _Tim_. Say, Sir? why, I'll deny it, Sir; for what Jury will believe so wise a Magistrate as I cou'd communicate such Secrets to such as you?
I'll say you forg'd 'em, and put 'em in--or print every one of 'em, and own 'em, as long as they were writ and publisht in London, Sir. Come, come, the World is not so bad yet, but a Man may speak Treason within the Walls of London, thanks be to God, and honest conscientious Jury-Men. And as for the Money, Gentlemen, take notice you rob the Party.
_Wild_. Come, come, carry off the Booty, and prithee remove that Rubbish of the Nation out of the way--Your servant, Sir.--So, away with it to _Dresswell's_ Lodgings, his Coach is at the Door ready to receive it.
[_They carry off Sir_ Timothy, _and others take up the Bags, and go out with 'em_.
_Dres_. Well, you are sure you have all you came for?
_Wild_. All's safe, my Lads, the Writings all--
_Fop_. Come, let's away then.
_Wild_. Away? what meanest thou? is there not a Lord to be found bound in his Bed, and all his People? Come, come, dispatch, and each Man bind his Fellow.
_Fop_. We had better follow the Baggage, Captain.
_Wild_. No, we have not done so ill, but we dare shew our Faces. Come, come, to binding.