Sir _Tim_. Ay, ay, silly indeed--a Pox upon her--a silly Knight, you say--
_Driv_. Ay, Sir, one she makes a very Ass of.
Sir _Tim_. Ay, so methinks--but she's kind, and will do reason for all him.
_Driv_. To a Friend, a Man of Quality--or so.
Sir _Tim_. Ay, she blinds the Knight.
_Driv_. Alas, Sir, easily--he, poor Cully, thinks her a very Saint--but when he's out of the way, she comes to me to pleasure a Friend.
Sir _Tim_. But what if the Fool miss her?
_Driv_. She cries Whore first, brings him upon his Knees for her Fault; and a piece of Plate, or a new Petticoat, makes his Peace again.
Sir _Tim. Why--look you, Mistress, I am that Fop, that very silly Knight, and the rest that you speak of.
_Driv_. How, Sir? then I'm undone, she's the Upholder of my Calling, the very Grace of my Function.
Sir _Tim_. Is she so? e'en keep her to your self then, I'll have no more of her, by Fortune--I humbly thank you for your Intelligence, and the rest. Well--I see there's not one honest Whore i'th' Nation, by Fortune.
_Enter_ Charles Bellmour, _and_ Trusty.
Hark ye, Mistress, what was your Bus'ness here?
_Flaunt_. To meet a Rogue!--
Sir _Tim_. And I to meet a Whore, and now we are well met.
_Flaunt_. How, Sir?
Sir _Tim_. Nay, never be surpriz'd, for your Intrigues are discover'd, the good Matron of the House (against her Will) has done me that kindness--you know how to live without your Keeper, and so I'll leave you.
_Flaunt_. You're too serviceable a Fool to be lost so. [_Aside_.
_Bel_. Who knows this bold Intruder?
_Char_. How, Sir, am I a Stranger to you? But I shou'd wonder at it, since all your last Night's Actions betray'd a strange depravity of Sense.--Sir, I have sought you long, and wish I had not found you yet, since both the Place and Company declare, how grossly you've dissembled Virtue all this while.
_Bel_. Take hence that prating Boy.
_Char_. How, Sir--You are my elder Brother, yet I may be allow'd to do the Business that I came for, and from my Uncle to demand your Wife.
_Bel_. You may return, and tell him that she's dead.
_Char_. Dead! sure, Sir, you rave.
[_Turns him about_.
_Bel_. Indeed I do--but yet she's dead, they say.
_Char_. How came she dead?
_Bel_. I kill'd her--ask no more, but leave me.
[_Turns him about again_.
_Char_. Sir, this is Madman's Language, and not to be believed.
_Bel_. Go to--y'are a saucy Boy.
_Char_. Sir, I'm an angry Boy-- But yet can bear much from a Brother's Mouth; Y'ave lost your sleep: pray, Sir, go home and seek it.
_Bel_. Home! I have no Home, unless thou mean'st my Grave, And thither I cou'd wish thou wou'd conduct me. [_Weeps_.
_Flaunt_. Pray Heaven this young virtuous Fellow don't spoil all.
--Sir, shall I send for a Scrivener to draw the Settlement you promis'd me?
_Bel_. Do so, and I'll order him to get it ready.
_Char_. A Settlement! On whom? This Woman, Sir?
_Bel_. Yes, on this Woman, Sir.
_Char_. Are you stark mad?--Know you where you are?
_Bel_. Yes, in a Baudy-house.
_Char_. And this Woman, Sir.--
_Bel_. A very Whore--a tawdry mercenary Whore!
And what of this?
_Char_. And can you love her, Sir?
_Bel_. No, if I did, I wou'd not gratify her.
_Char_. What, is't in Charity to keep her honest?
_Bel_. Neither.
_Char_. Is your Lust grown so high--
_Bel_. Take that-- [_Strikes him_.
For naming but so base a thing to me.
_Char_. I wear a Sword, but not to draw on Mad-men. But since y'are so free, Sir, I demand that Fortune, which by my Father's Will y'are bound to pay the day after your Wedding-Day; my Sister's too is due.
_Bel_. Ha, ha, ha,--Sir _Timothy_, come hither--who dost think this is?