Sham. Faith, Sir, Your Luck’s so bad, I han’t the Conscience to play longer—Sir Timothy and you play off a hundred Guineas, and see if Luck will turn.

Bel. Do you take me for a Country Squire, whose Reputation will be crackt at the loss of a petty Thousand? You have my Note for it to my Goldsmith.

Sham. ‘Tis sufficient if it were for ten thousand.

Bel. Why, Sir Timothy—Pox on’t, thou’rt dull, we are not half debauch’d and leud enough, give us more Wine.

Sir Tim. Faith, Frank, I’m a little maukish with sitting up all Night, and want a small refreshment this Morning—Did we not send for Whores?

Bel. No, I am not in humour for a Wench— By Heaven, I hate the Sex. All but divine Celinda, Appear strange Monsters to my Eyes and Thoughts.

Sir Tim. What, art Italianiz’d, and lovest thy own Sex?

Bel. I’m for any thing that’s out of the common Road of Sin; I love a Man that will be damn’d for something: to creep by slow degrees to Hell, as if he were afraid the World shou’d see which way he went, I scorn it, ‘tis like a Conventicler—No, give me a Man, who to be certain of’s Damnation, will break a solemn Vow to a contracted Maid.

Sir Tim. Ha, ha, ha, I thought thou would’st have said at least—had murder’d his Father, or ravish’d his Mother—Break a Vow, quoth ye—by Fortune, I have broke a thousand.

Bel. Well said, my Boy! A Man of Honour! And will be ready whene’er the Devil calls for thee—So—ho—more Wine, more Wine, and Dice.

Enter a Servant with Dice and Wine.

Come, Sir, let me— [Throws and loses.

Sir Tim. What will you set me, Sir?

Bel. Cater-tray—a hundred Guineas—oh, damn the Dice—’tis mine—come, a full Glass—Damnation to my Uncle.

Sir Tim. By Fortune, I’ll do thee reason—give me the Glass, and, Sham, to thee—Confusion to the musty Lord.

Bel. So—now I’m like my self, profanely wicked. A little room for Life—but such a Life As Hell it self shall wonder at—I’ll have a care To do no one good deed in the whole course on’t, Lest that shou’d save my Soul in spite of Vow-breach. —I will not die—that Peace my Sins deserve not. I’ll live and let my Tyrant Uncle see The sad effects of Perjury, and forc’d Marriage. —Surely the Pow’rs above envy’d my Bliss; Marrying Celinda, I had been an Angel, So truly blest, and good. [Weeps.

Sir Tim. Why, how now, Frank—by Fortune, the Rogue is Maudlin—So, ho, ho, so ho.

Bel. The matter?

Sir Tim. Oh, art awake—What a Devil ail’st thou, Frank?

Bel. A Wench, or any thing—come, let’s drink a round.

Sham. They’re come as wisht for.

Enter Flauntit, Driver, Doll and Jenny mask’d.

Bel. Oh, damn ‘em! What shall I do? Yet it would look like Virtue to avoid ‘em. No, I must venture on—Ladies, y’are welcome.

Sir Tim. How, the Women?—Hold, hold, Bellmour, let me choose too— Come, come, unmask, and shew your pretty Faces.

Flaunt. How, Sir Timothy! What Devil ow’d me a spite. [Aside.

Sir Tim. Come, unmask, I say: a willing Wench would have shew’d all in half this time.

Flaunt. Wou’d she so, Impudence! [Pulls off her Mask.

Sir Tim. How, my Betty!

Flaunt. This is the Trade you drive, you eternal Fop, when I sit at home expecting you Night after Night.

Sir Tim. Nay, dear Betty!

Flaunt. ‘Tis here you spend that which shou’d buy me Points and Petticoats, whilst I go like no body’s Mistress; I’d as live be your Wife at this rate, so I had: and I’m in no small danger of getting the foul Disease by your Leudness.

Sir Tim. Victorious Betty, be merciful, and do not ruin my Reputation amongst my Friends.

Flaunt. Your Whores you mean, you Sot you.

Sir Tim. Nay, triumphant Betty, hear thy poor Timmy.

Flaunt. My poor Ninny, I’m us’d barbarously, and won’t endure it.

Sir Tim. I’ve won Money to Night, Betty, to buy thee Clothes—hum —hum—Well said, Frank, towse the little Jilts, they came for that purpose.

Flaunt. The Devil confound him, what a Prize have I lost by his being here—my Comfort is, he has not found me out though, but thinks I came to look for him, and accordingly I must dissemble.

Bel. What’s here? A Lady all in Tears!

Sir Tim. An old Acquaintance of mine, that takes it unkindly that I am for Change—Betty, say so too, you know I can settle nothing till I’m marry’d; and he can do it swingingly, if we can but draw him in.

Flaunt. This mollifies something, do this, and you’ll make your Peace; if not, you Rascal, your Ears shall pay for this Night’s Transgression.

Sir Tim. Come hither, Frank, is not this a fine Creature?

Bel. By Heaven, a very Devil!

Sir Tim. Come, come, approach her; for if you’ll have a Miss, this has all the good Qualities of one—go, go Court her, thou art so bashful—

Bel. I cannot frame my Tongue to so much Blasphemy, as ‘tis to say kind things to her—I’ll try my Heart though—Fair Lady—Damn her, she is not fair—nor sweet—nor good—nor—something I must say for a beginning. Come, Lady—dry your Eyes: This Man deserves not all the Tears you shed. —So—at last the Devil has got the better of me, And I am enter’d.

Flaunt. You see, Sir, how miserable we Women are that love you Men.

Bel. How, did you love him? Love him against his Will?

Flaunt. So it seems, Sir.

Bel. Oh, thou art wretched then indeed; no wonder if he hate thee— Does he not curse thee? Curse thee till thou art damn’d, as I do lost Diana. [Aside.

Flaunt. Curse me! He were not best in my hearing; Let him do what he will behind my Back. What ails the Gentleman?

Bel. Gods! what an odious thing mere Coupling is! A thing which every sensual Animal Can do as well as we—but prithee tell me, Is there nought else between the nobler Creatures?

Flaunt. Not that I know of, Sir— Lord, he’s very silly, or very innocent, I hope he has his Maidenhead; if so, and rich too. Oh, what a booty were this for me! [Aside.

Bel. ‘Tis wondrous strange; Why was not I created like the rest, Wild, and insensible, to fancy all?

Flaunt. Come, Sir, you must learn to be gay, to sing, to dance, and talk of any thing, and fancy any thing that’s in your way too.

Bel. Oh, I can towse, and ruffle, like any Leviathan, when I begin— Come, prove my Vigor. [Towses her.

Flaunt. Oh, Lord, Sir! You tumble all my Garniture.

Bel. There’s Gold to buy thee more—

Flaunt. Oh, sweet Sir—wou’d my Knight were hang’d, so I were well rid of him now—Well, Sir, I swear you are the most agreeable Person—

Bel. Am I?—let us be more familiar then—I’ll kiss thy Hand, thy Breast, thy Lips—and—

Flaunt. All—you please, Sir—

Bel. A tractable Sinner! [Offers to kiss her. Faugh—how she smells—had I approach’d so near divine Celinda, what A natural Fragrancy had sent it self through all my ravisht Senses! [Aside.

Flaunt. The Man’s extasy’d, sure, I shall take him. Come, Sir, you’re sad.

Bel. As Angels fall’n from the Divine Abode, And now am lighted on a very Hell! —But this is not the way to thrive in Wickedness; I must rush on to Ruin—Come, fair Mistress, Will you not shew me some of your Arts of Love? For I am very apt to learn of Beauty—Gods— What is’t I negotiate for?—a Woman! Making a Bargain to possess a Woman! Oh, never, never!

Flaunt. The Man is in love, that’s certain—as I was saying, Sir—

Bel. Be gone, Repentance! Thou needless Goodness, Which if I follow, canst lead me to no Joys. Come, tell me the Price of all your Pleasures.

Sir Tim. Look you, Mistress, I am but a Country Knight. Yet I shou’d be glad of your farther Acquaintance. —Pray, who may that Lady be—

Driv. Who, Mrs. Flauntit, Sir?

Sir Tim. Ay, she: she’s tearing fine, by Fortune.

Driv. I’ll assure you, Sir, she’s kept, and is a great Rarity, but to a Friend, or so—

Sir Tim. Hum—kept—pray, by whom?

Driv. Why, a silly Knight, Sir, that—

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?

Sir Tim. A Fidler, perhaps—let him play in the next Room.

Bel. No, my Brother—come to demand his Portion of me; he says I am in leud Company, and, like a Boy, he wou’d correct me.

Sir Tim. Why, this comes of Idleness; thou should’st have bound him Prentice in time, the Boy would have made a good saucy Taylor.

Char. Sirrah, y’are a Rascal, whom I must thus chastise. [Kicks him.

[They all draw, and Bellmour stands foremost, and fights with Charles; the Women run squeaking out, Sir Tim. Sham, and Sharp sneak behind; Trusty interposes.

Trust. Hold, hold, I beseech you, my dear Masters! Oh, what a fight is this? Two Brothers fighting with each other! Oh, were my old Master alive, this wou’d break his Heart: Oh, Sir, you’ve kill’d your Brother!

Bel. Why, then his Portion’s paid. [Charles wounded.

Sir Tim. How, kill’d! Nay, ‘tis time we departed then, and shifted for ourselves.

[Ex. Sir Tim. Sham and Sharp.

Trust. Oh, Sir, shall I send for a Chyrurgion?

Char. No, for a Coach rather, I am not wounded much.

[Ex. Trusty.

Bel. How dar’st thou trust thy self alone with me?

Char. Why should I fear thee?

Bel. Because I’m mad, Mad as a Tygress rob’d of her dear Young.

Char. What is’t that makes you so?

Bel. My Uncle’s Politicks, Hell take him for’t, Has ruin’d me, thou and my Sister too, By marrying me to a fair hated Maid, When I had plighted all my Faith before.

Enter Trusty.

Trust. Sir, here’s a Coach.

Char. Come, Brother, will you go home with me?

Bel. Home!—no, never to that place thou call’st so. If, when I’m dead, thou wouldst behold thy Brother, And take the last Adieu from his cold Lips, (If those so perjur’d can deserve that kindness) Inquire for lost Celinda, at whose Feet Thou shalt behold me fall’n a Sacrifice. Till then, I’ll let mistaken Parents know The mischiefs that ensue a broken Vow.

[Ex. severally.