_Aman._ My Apprehensions should alarm your Courage. _Lov._ Fy, fy, _Amanda_, it is not kind thus to distrust me. _Aman._ And yet my Fears are founded on my Love. _Lov._ For if you can believe 'tis possible I shou'd again relapse to my past Follies, I must appear to you a thing Of such an undigested Composition, That but to think of me with Inclination, Wou'd be a Weakness in your Taste, Your Virtue scarce cou'd answer. _Aman._ 'Twou'd be a Weakness in my Tongue, My Prudence cou'd not answer, If I shou'd press you farther with my Fears; I'll therefore trouble you no longer with 'em. _Lov._ Nor shall they trouble you much longer, A little time shall shew you they were groundless; This Winter shall be the fiery Trial of my Virtue; Which, when it once has past, You'll be convinc'd 'twas of no false Allay, There all your Cares will end-- _Aman._ Pray Heaven they may! [_Exeunt Hand in Hand._ +SCENE+, _Whitehall._ _Enter ~Young Fashion~, ~Lory~, and ~Waterman~._ _Young Fash._ Come, pay the Waterman, and take the Pormanteau. _Lory._ Faith, Sir, I think the Waterman had as good take the Portmanteau, and pay himself. _Young Fash._ Why sure there's something left in't. _Lory._ But a solitary old Waistcoat, upon my Honour, Sir. _Young Fash._ Why, what's become of the blue Coat, Sirrah? _Lory._ Sir, 'twas eaten at _Gravesend_; the Reckoning came to thirty Shillings, and your Privy-Purse was worth but two Half-Crowns. _Young Fash._ 'Tis very well. _Wat._ Pray, Master, will you please to dispatch me? _Young Fash._ Ay, here a----Canst thou change me a Guinea? _Lory._ [_Aside._] Good. _Wat._ Change a Guinea, Master! Ha, ha, your Honour's pleas'd to compliment. _Young Fash._ I'gad I don't know how I shall pay thee then, for I have nothing but Gold about me. _Lory._ [_Aside._]--Hum, hum. _Young Fash._ What dost thou expect, Friend? _Wat._ Why, Master, so far against Wind and Tide, is richly worth half a Piece. _Young Fash._ Why, faith, I think thou art a good conscionable Fellow. I'gad, I begin to have so good an Opinion of thy Honesty, I care not if I leave my Portmanteau with thee, till I send thee thy Money. _Wat._ Ha! God bless your Honour; I should be as willing to trust you, Master, but that you are, as a Man may say, a Stranger to me, and these are nimble Times; there are a great many Sharpers stirring. [_Taking up the Portmanteau._] Well, Master, when your Worship sends the Money, your Portmanteau shall be forthcoming. My Name's _Tugg_, my Wife keeps a Brandy-Shop in _Drab-Ally_ at _Wapping_. _Young Fash._ Very well; I'll send for't to-morrow. [_Exit Wat._ _Lory._ So--Now, Sir, I hope you'll own yourself a happy Man, you have outliv'd all your Cares. _Young Fash._ How so, Sir?