_Gay_. Here, _Rag_, run and fetch her a Pint of Sack--there's no other way of quenching the Fire in her flabber Chops.
[_Exit_ Rag.
--But, my dear Landlady, have a little Patience.
_Land_. Patience! I scorn your Words, Sir--is this a place to trust in?
tell me of Patience, that us'd to have my money before hand; come, come, pay me quickly--or old _Gregory Grimes_ house shall be too hot to hold you.
_Gay_. Is't come to this, can I not be heard?
_Land_. No, Sir, you had good Clothes when you came first, but they dwindled daily, till they dwindled to this old Campaign--with tan'd coloured Lining--once red--but now all Colours of the Rain-bow, a Cloke to sculk in a Nights, and a pair of piss-burn'd shammy Breeches. Nay, your very Badge of Manhood's gone too.
_Gay_. How, Landlady! nay then, i'faith, no wonder if you rail so.
_Land_. Your Silver Sword I mean--transmogrified to this two-handed Basket Hilt--this old Sir _Guy_ of _Warwick_--which will sell for nothing but old Iron. In fine, I'll have my money, Sir, or i'faith, _Alsatia_ shall not shelter you.
_Enter_ Rag.
_Gay_. Well, Landlady--if we must part--let's drink at parting; here, Landlady, here's to the Fool--that shall love you better than I have done. [_Sighing, drinks_.
_Land_. Rot your Wine--dy'e think to pacify me with Wine, Sir?
[_She refusing to drink, he holds open her Jaws_, Rag _throws a Glass of Wine into her Mouth_.
--What, will you force me?--no--give me another Glass, I scorn to be so uncivil to be forced, my service to you, Sir--this shan't do, Sir.
[_She drinks, he, embracing her, sings_.
_Ah_, Cloris, _'tis in vain you scold, Whilst your Eyes kindle such a Fire.
Tour Railing cannot make me cold, So fast as they a Warmth inspire_.
_Land_. Well, Sir, you have no reason to complain of my Eyes nor my Tongue neither, if rightly understood. [_Weeps_.
_Gay_. I know you are the best of Landladies, As such I drink your Health-- [_Drinks_.
But to upbraid a Man in Tribulation--fie--'tis not done like a Woman of Honour, a Man that loves you too.
[She drinks.
_Land_. I am a little hasty sometimes, but you know my good Nature.
_Gay_. I do, and therefore trust my little wants with you. I shall be rich again--and then, my dearest Landlady--
_Land_. Wou'd this Wine might ne'er go through me, if I wou'd not go, as they say, through Fire and Water--by Night or by Day for you.
[_She drinks_.
_Gay_. And as this is Wine I do believe thee. [_He drinks_.
_Land_. Well--you have no money in your Pocket now, I'll warrant you-- here--here's ten Shillings for you old _Greg'ry_ knows not of.
[_Opens a great greasy purse_.
_Gay_. I cannot in Conscience take it, good Faith, I cannot--besides, the next Quarrel you'll hit me in the Teeth with it.
_Land_. Nay, pray no more of that; forget it, forget it. I own I was to blame--here, Sir, you shall take it.
_Gay_. Ay,--but what shou'd I do with Money in these damn'd Breeches?
--No, put it up--I can't appear abroad thus--no, I'll stay at home, and lose my business.
_Land_. Why, is there no way to redeem one of your Suits?
_Gay_. None--none--I'll e'en lay me down and die.
_Land_. Die--marry, Heavens forbid--I would not for the World--let me see--hum--what does it lie for?
_Gay_. Alas! dear Landlady, a Sum--a Sum.
_Land_. Well, say no more, I'll lay about me.
_Gay_. By this kiss but you shall not--_Assafetida_, by this Light.
_Land_. Shall not? that's a good one, i'faith: shall you rule, or I?
_Gay_. But shou'd your Husband know it?--
_Land_. Husband--marry come up, Husbands know Wives secrets? No, sure, the World's not so bad yet--where do your things lie? and for what?
_Gay_. Five Pounds equips me--_Rag_ can conduct you--but I say you shall not go, I've sworn.
_Land_. Meddle with your matters--let me see, the Caudle Cup that _Molly's_ Grandmother left her, will pawn for about that sum--I'll sneak it out--well, Sir, you shall have your things presently--trouble not your head, but expect me.
[_Ex_. Landlady _and_ Rag.
_Gay_. Was ever man put to such beastly shifts? 'Sdeath, how she stunk-- my senses are most luxuriously regal'd--there's my perpetual Musick too--
[_Knocking of Hammers on a Anvil_.
The ringing of Bells is an Ass to't.
_Enter_ Rag.
_Rag_. Sir, there's one in a Coach below wou'd speak to you.
_Gay_. With me, and in a Coach! who can it be?
_Rag_. The Devil, I think, for he has a strange Countenance.
_Gay_. The Devil! shew your self a Rascal of Parts, Sirrah, and wait on him up with Ceremony.
_Rag_. Who, the Devil, Sir?