Sir Tim.  Your Pardon, sweet Sharp, my whole Design in it is to be Master of my self, and with part of her Portion to set up my Miss, Betty Flauntit; which, by the way, is the main end of my marrying; the rest you’ll have your shares of—­Now I am forc’d to take you up Suits at treble Prizes, have damn’d Wine and Meat put upon us, ’cause the Reckoning is to be book’d:  But ready Money, ye Rogues!  What Charms it has! makes the Waiters fly, Boys, and the Master with Cap in Hand—­excuse what’s amiss, Gentlemen—­Your Worship shall command the best—­and the rest—­How briskly the Box and Dice dance, and the ready Money submits to the lucky Gamester, and the gay Wench consults with every Beauty to make her self agreeable to the Man with ready Money!  In fine, dear Rogues, all things are sacrific’d to its Power; and no Mortal conceives the Joy of Argent Content.  ’Tis this powerful God that makes me submit to the Devil, Matrimony; and then thou art assur’d of me, my stout Lads of brisk Debauch.

Sham.  And is it possible you can be ty’d up to a Wife?  Whilst here in London, and free, you have the whole World to range in, and like a wanton Heifer, eat of every Pasture.

Sir Tim.  Why, dost think I’ll be confin’d to my own dull Enclosure?  No, I had rather feed coarsely upon the boundless Common; perhaps two or three days I may be in love, and remain constant, but that’s the most.

Sharp.  And in three Weeks, should you wed a Cynthia, you’d be a Monster.

Sir Tim.  What, thou meanest a Cuckold, I warrant.  God help thee!  But a Monster is only so from its Rarity, and a Cuckold is no such strange thing in our Age.

    Enter Bellmour and Friendlove.

But who comes here? Bellmour! Ah, my little dear Rogue! how dost thou? —­Ned Friendlove too!  Dear Lad, how dost thou too?  Why, welcome to Town, i’faith, and I’m glad to see you both.

Friend.  Sir Timothy Tawdrey!—­

Sir Tim.  The same, by Fortune, dear Ned:  And how, and how, Man, how go Matters?

Friend.  Between who, Sir?

Sir Tim.  Why, any Body, Man; but, by Fortune, I’m overjoy’d to meet thee:  But where dost think I was going?

Friend.  Is’t possible one shou’d divine?

Sir Tim.  Is’t possible you shou’d not, and meet me so near your Sister’s Lodgings?  Faith, I was coming to pay my Respects and Services, and the rest—­Thou know’st my meaning—­The old Business of the Silver-World, Ned; by Fortune, it’s a mad Age we live in, Ned; and here be so many—­wicked Rogues, about this damn’d leud Town, that, ’faith, I am fain to speak in the vulgar modish Style, in my own Defence, and railly Matrimony and the rest.

Friend.  Matrimony!—­I hope you are so exactly refin’d a Man of the Town, that you will not offer once to think of so dull a thing:  let that alone for such cold Complexions as Bellmour here, and I, that have not attain’d to that most excellent faculty of Keeping yet, as you, Sir Timothy, have done; much to your Glory, I assure you.