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?