Sir Cau.  For only performing my Promise to this Gentleman.

Sir Feeb.  Ay, you showed her the Difference, Sir; you’re a wise man.  Come, dry your Eyes—­and rest your self contented, we are a couple of old Coxcombs; d’ye Hear, Sir, Coxcombs.

Sir Cau.  I grant it, Sir; and if I die, Sir, I bequeath my Lady to
you—­with my whole Estate—­my Nephew has too much already for a Fool.
          
                                              [To Gayman.

Gay.  I thank you, Sir—­do you consent, my Julia?

L. Ful.  No, Sir—­you do not like me—­a canvas Bag of wooden Ladles were a better Bed-fellow.

Gay.  Cruel Tormenter!  Oh, I could kill myself with shame and anger!

L. Ful.  Come hither, Bredwel—­witness for my Honour—­that I had no design upon his Person, but that of trying his Constancy.

Bred.  Believe me, Sir, ’tis true—­I feigned a danger near—­just as you got to bed—­and I was the kind Devil, Sir, that brought the Gold to you.

Bea.  And you were one of the Devils that beat me, and the Captain here, Sir?

Gay.  No truly, Sir, those were some I hired—­to beat you for abusing me to day.

Noi.  To make you ’mends, Sir, I bring you the certain News of the death of Sir Thomas Gayman, your Uncle, who has left you Two thousand pounds a year—­

Gay.  I thank you, Sir—­I heard the news before.

Sir Cau.  How’s this; Mr. Gayman, my Lady’s first Lover?  I find, Sir Feeble, we were a couple of old Fools indeed, to think at our Age to cozen two lusty young Fellows of their Mistresses; ’tis no wonder that both the Men and the Women have been too hard for us; we are not fit Matches for either, that’s the truth on’t.

  The Warrior needs must to his Rival yield,
  Who comes with blunted Weapons to the Field.

EPILOGUE.

Written by a Person of Quality, Spoken by Mr. Betterton.

Long have we turn’d the point of our just Rage
On the half Wits, and Criticks of the Age. 
Oft has the soft, insipid Sonneteer
In Nice and Flutter, seen his Fop-face here. 
Well was the ignorant lampooning Pack
Of shatterhead Rhymers whip’d on Craffey’s back;
But such a trouble Weed is Poetaster,
The lower ’tis cut down, it grows the faster. 
Though Satir then had such a plenteous crop,
An After Math of Coxcombs is come up;
Who not content false Poetry to renew,
By sottish Censures wou’d condemn the true. 
Let writing like a Gentleman—­fine appear,
But must you needs judge too en Cavalier?
These whiffling Criticks, ’tis our Auth’ress fears,
And humbly begs a Trial by her Peers: 
Or let a Pole of Fools her fate pronounce,
There’s no great harm in a good quiet Dunce. 
But shield her, Heaven! from the left-handed blow
Of airy Blockheads who pretend to know. 
On downright Dulness let her rather split,
Than be Fop-mangled under colour of Wit.