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.