_Thus in _Covent-Garden_ he makes his Campaign, And no Coffee-house haunts, but to settle his Brain.
He laughs at dry Morals, and never does think, Unless 'tis to get the best Wenches and Drink.
He dwells in a Tavern, and lies ev'ry where, And improving his hours, lives an Age in a Tear: For as Life is uncertain, he loves to make haste; And thus he lives longest, because he lives fast: Then a Leap in the dark to the Devil he takes.
What Death can compare with the Jolly Town-Rake's?_
Sir _Mer._ Why, how now, Sir _Morgan_, I see you'll make a Husband of the right Town-Mode: What, married but four Days, and at your separate Apartment already?
Sir _Morg._ A Plague of your what d'ye call ums.
Sir _Mer._ Rakehells you would say, Cousin, an honourable Appellation for Men of Bravery.
Sir _Morg._ Ay, ay, your Rakehells--I was never so muddled with Treason, Tierce Claret, Oaths and Dice, all the Days of my Life--Was I in case to do Family duty? S'life, you drank down all my Love, all my Prudence too; Gad forgive me for it.
Sir _Mer._ Why, how the Devil cam'st thou to bear thy Liquor so ill? Ods my Life, you drunk like a _Frenchman_ new come to the University.
Sir _Morg._ Pox, I can bear their drinking as well as any Man; but your _London_ way of Bousing and Politics does not agree with my Constitution. Look ye, Cousin, set quietly to't, and I'll stand my ground; but to have screaming Whores, noisy Bullies, rattling Dice, swearing and cursing Gamesters, Couz. turns the Head of a Country-Drinker, more than the Wine.
Sir _Mer._ Oh! Use, Cousin, will make an able Man.
Sir _Morg._ Use, Cousin! Use me no Uses; for if ever you catch me at your damn'd Clubs again, I'll give you my Mother for a Maid: Why, you talk downright Treason.
Sir _Mer._ Treason, ay--
Sir _Morg._ Ah Cousin, why, we talk'd enough to--hang us all.
Sir _Mer._ My honest Country-Couz. when wilt thou understand the _Guelphs_, and the _Gibelins_, and learn to talk Treason o' this side the Law? bilk a Whore without remorse; break Windows, and not pay for 'em; drink your Bottle without asking Questions; kill your Man without letting him draw; play away your Money without fear of your Spouse, and stop her Mouth by undermining her Nose?
Sir _Morg._ Come, come, look you, Cousin, one word of Advice now I'm sober; what the Devil should provoke thee and me to put ourselves on our twelve Godfathers for a Frolick? We who have Estates. I shou'd be loth to leave the World with a scurvy Song, composed by the Poet _Sternhold_.
Enter at the Door Sir _Rowland_, hearkning.
Or why, d'ye see, shou'd I expose my Noddle to the Billmen in Flannel, and lie in the _Roundhouse_, when I may go to bed in a whole skin with my Lady Wife?
Sir _Mer._ Gad, Sir _Morgan_, thou hast sometimes pretty smart satirical Touches with thee; use but _Will's_ Coffee-house a little, and with thy Estate, and that Talent, thou mayst set up for a Wit.
Sir _Morg._ Mercy upon me, Sir _Merlin_, thou art stark mad: What, I a Wit! I had rather be one of your Rakehells: for, look ye, a Man may swear and stare, or so; break Windows, and Drawers Heads, or so; unrig a needy Whore, and yet keep one's Estate: but should I turn Wit, 'twere impossible; for a Wit with an Estate is like a Prisoner among the Cannibals.
Sir _Mer._ How so, good Sir _Morgan_?
Sir _Morg._ Why, the needy Rogues only feed him with Praise, to fatten him for their Palates, and then devour him.
Sir _Mer._ I applaud your choice, Cousin; for what Man of Bravery wou'd not prefer a Rake to a Wit? The one enjoys the Pleasures the other can only rail at; and that not out of Conscience, but Impotence: for alas!
a Wit has no quarrel to Vice in Perfection, but what the Fox had to the Grapes; he can't play away his hundred Pound at sight; his Third Day won't afford it; and therefore he rails at Gamesters; Whores shun him, as much as Noblemen, and for the same cause, Money; those care not to sell their Carcases for a Sonnet, nor these to scatter their Guineas, to be told an old Tale of a Tub, they were so well acquainted with before.
Sir _Morg._ What's that, Sir _Merlin_?
Sir _Mer._ Why, their Praise;--for the Poet's Flattery seldom reaches the Patron's Vanity; and what's too strong season'd for the rest of the World, is too weak for their Palates.
Sir _Morg._ Why, look ye, Cousin, you're a shreud Fellow: Whence learn'd you this Satire? for I'm sure 'tis none of thy own; for I shou'd as soon suspect thee guilty of good Nature, as Wit.
Sir _Mer._ I scorn it; and therefore I confess I stole the Observation from a Poet; but the Devil pick his Bones for diverting me from the noble Theme of Rakehells.
Sir _Morg._ Noble Theme, Sir _Merlin_! look ye, d'ye see: Don't mistake me, I think 'tis a very scurvy one; and I wou'd not have your Father know that you set up for such a Reprobate; for Sir _Rowland_ would certainly disinherit thee.
Sir _Mer._ O, keep your musty Morals to your self, good Country Couz; they'll do you service to your _Welch_ Criminals, for stealing an Hen, or breaking up a Wenches Inclosure, or so, Sir _Morgan_; but for me, I despise 'em: I have not been admitted into the Family of the _Rakehellorums_ for this, Sir: Let my Father drink old _Adam_, read the _Pilgrim's Progress_, _The Country Justice's Calling_, or for a Regale, drink the dull Manufacture of Malt and Water; I defy him; he can't cut off the Entail of what is settled on me: and for the rest, I'l trust Dame _Fortune_; and pray to the Three Fatal Sisters to cut his rotten Thred in two, before he thinks of any such Wickedness.
Enter Sir _Rowland_ in a great Rage.
Sir _Row._ Will you so, Sir? Why, how now, Sirrah! get you out of my House, Rogue; get out of my Doors, Rascal.
[Beats him.
Enter Lady _Blunder_.
L. _Blun._ Upon my Honour now, Brother, what's the matter? Whence this ungenerous Disturbance?
Sir _Row._ What's the matter! the disturbance! Why, Sister, this Rogue here--this unintelligible graceless Rascal here, will needs set up for a Rakehell, when there's scarce such a thing in the Nation, above an Ale-draper's Son; and chuses to be aukardly out of fashion, merely for the sake of Tricking and Poverty; and keeps company with the senseless, profane, lazy, idle, noisy, groveling Rascals, purely for the sake of spending his Estate like a notorious Blockhead: But I'll take care he shall not have what I can dispose of--You'll be a Rake-hell, will you?
L. _Blun._ How, Cousin! Sure you'll not be such a filthy beastly thing, will you?
Sir _Mer._ Lord, Aunt, I only go to the Club sometimes, to improve my self in the Art of Living, and the Accomplishments of a fine Gentleman.
Sir _Row._ A fine Gentleman, Sot, a fine Coxcomb! [Beats him.
Sir _Morg._ Hold, hold, good Uncle; my Cousin has been only drawn in, a little or so, d'ye see, being Heir to a good Estate; and that's what his Club wants, to pay off old Tavern Scores, and buy Utensils for Whores in Fashion.
Sir _Row._ My Estate sold to pay Tavern-Scores, and keep nasty Whores!
L. _Blun._ Whores! ay, filthy Creatures; do they deal in Whores? Pray, Cousin, what's a Rake-hell?
Sir _Row._ A Rake-hell is a Man that defies Law and good Manners, nay, and good Sense too; hates both Morality and Religion, and that not for any Reason (for he never thinks) but merely because he don't understand 'em: He's the Whore's Protection and Punishment, the Baud's Tool, the Sharper's Bubble, the Vintner's Property, the Drawer's Terror, the Glasier's Benefactor; in short, a roaring, thoughtless, heedless, ridiculous, universal Coxcomb.
Sir _Mer._ O Lord, Aunt, no more like him than an Attorney's like an honest Man. Why, a Rake-hell is--
Sir _Row._ What, Sirrah! what, you Rebel? [Strikes him.
L. _Blun._ Nay, good Brother, permit my Nephew to tell us his Notion.
Sir _Mer._ Why, Aunt, I say a Rake-hell is your only Man of Bravery; he slights all the Force of Fortune, and sticks at no Hazard--plays away his hundred Pounds at sight, pays a Lady's Bill at sight, drinks his Bottle without equivocation, and fights his Man without any Provocation.
Sir _Row._ Nay then, Mr. Rogue, I'll be sworn thou art none: Come, Sir, will you fight, Sir? will you fight, Sir? Ha!
[Draws his Sword.
Sir _Mer._ Fight, Sir! fight, Sir!
Sir _Row._ Yes, fight, Sir: Come, spare your Prayers to the three Fatal Sisters, and cut my Thred thy self, thou graceless reprobate Rascal--Come, come on, you Man of Bravery.
[Runs at Sir _Merlin_, who retires before him: Sir _Morgan_ holds Sir _Rowland_.
Sir _Mer._ Oh, good Sir, hold: I recant, Sir, I recant.
Sir _Row._ [Putting up.] Well, I'm satisfy'd thou'lt make no good Rake-hell in this Point, whatever you will in the others. And since Nature has made thee a Coward, Inclination a Coxcomb, I'll take care to make thee a Beggar; and so thou shalt be a Rake-hell but in Will, I'll disinherit thee, I will, Villain.