Trust.  None:  The Next you’ll hear is, that he’s undone, and that you must go without your Portions; and worse than that, I can tell you, your Uncle designs to turn you out of Doors.

Phil.  Alas! what shou’d I do, if he shou’d be so cruel?  Wou’d I were in Flanders at my Monastery again, if this be true.

Trust.  I have better Bus’ness for you, than telling of Beads—­No, Mrs. Phillis, you must be married.

Phil.  Alas!  I am too young, and sad for Love.

Trust.  The younger, and the less Love, the better.

    Enter Page.

Page.  Mr. Trusty, here’s a Gentleman would speak with you, he says his Name’s Mr. Sham.

Trust.  Gud’s me, Mistress, put on all your Holiday Looks; for this is the little Merchant of Love by Retail, that brings you the Husband I promis’d you.

    Enter Sham.

Sham.  Well, Mr. Trusty, I have brought Sir Timothy as I promis’d, he is at the Garden-door.

Trust.  The best time in the World, my Lord’s out of the way.

Sham.  But you know our Conditions.

Trust.  Yes, that if he marry her, you are to have all the Money that he offers to debauch her.

Sham.  Right.

Trust.  Bring him in then, and I’ll civilly withdraw.
                                               [Exit Trusty.

Enter Sham, bringing in Sir Timothy.

Sir Tim.  Well, Sham, thou hast prepar’d all things, and there needs no Ceremony.

Sham.  None, none, Sir; you may fall down-right to the Business.
          
                                                   [Exit.

Enter Phillis.

Sir Tim. sings.

Come, my Phillis, let us improve Both our Joys of equal Love; Whilst we in yonder shady Grove, Count Minutes by our Kisses.

Phil.  What sort of Courtship’s this? ’tis very odd!

Sir Tim.  Pox on formal Fops; we have high-born and generous Souls, and scorn the common Road—­Come, let’s enjoy, whilst Youth and Beauty lasts.

Phil.  What means this Rudeness?  I’ll tell my Brother.

Sir Tim.  Your Brother! by Fortune, he’s so leud, that should I he so unconscionable to leave thee a Virgin but this Night, he wou’d ravish thee himself, and that at cheaper Rates than I design to do it.

Phil.  How dare you talk to me at this rate?

Sir Tim.  Talk to thee—­by Fortune, I’ll play the Tarquin with thee, if thou yieldest not quickly—­for thou hast set me all on fire.

Phil.  Defend me, Heaven, from such a Man.

Sir Tim.  Then it must defend you from all the Sex; for all Mankind are like me, nay, and all Womankind are, or wou’d be, what I must make thee.