_Lord Rake._ Then my Muse is to your Taste. But drink away; the Night steals upon us; we shall want Time to be lewd in. Hey, Page! Sally out, Sirrah, and see what's doing in the Camp; we'll beat up their Quarters presently. _Page._ I'll bring your Lordship an exact Account. [_Exit Page._ _Lord Rake._. Now let the Spirit of Clary go round. Fill me a Brimmer Here's to our Forlorn Hope. Courage, Knight, Victory attends you. _Sir John._ And Laurels shall crown me; drink away, and be damn'd. _Lord Rake._ Again, Boys; t'other Glass, and damn Morality. _Sir John._ [_Drunk._] Ay--damn Morality--and damn the Watch. And let the Constable be married. _All._ Huzza! _Re-enter Page._ _Lord Rake._ How are the Streets inhabited, Sirrah? _Page._ My Lord, 'tis Sunday-night; they are full of drunken Citizens. _Lord Rake._ Along, then, Boys, we shall have a Feast. _Col. Bully._ Along, noble Knight. _Sir John._ Ay----along, _Bully_; and he that says Sir _John Brute_ is not as drunk and as religious as the drunkenest Citizen of them all--is a Liar, and the Son of a Whore. _Col. Bully._ Why, that was bravely spoke, and like a free-born _Englishman_. _Sir John._ What's that to you, Sir, whether I am an _Englishman_ or a _Frenchman_? _Col. Bully._ Zoons, you are not angry, Sir? _Sir John._ Zoons, I am angry, Sir----for if I'm a free-born _Englishman_, what have you to do even to talk of my Privileges? _Lord Rake._ Why, pr'ythee, Knight, don't quarrel here; leave private Animosities to be decided by Day-light; let the Night be employ'd against the publick Enemy. _Sir John._ My Lord, I respect you because you are a Man of Quality. But I'll make that Fellow know, I am within a Hair's breadth as absolute by my Privileges, as the King of _France_ is by his Prerogative. He by his Prerogative takes Money where it is not his due; I by my Privilege refuse paying it where I owe it. Liberty and Property, and _Old England_, Huzza! _All._ Huzza! [_Exit Sir ~John~ reeling, all following him._ +SCENE+, _A Bed-Chamber._ _Enter ~Lady Brute~ and ~Belinda~._ _Lady Brute._ Sure 'tis late, _Belinda_; I begin to be sleepy. _Bel._ Yes, 'tis near Twelve. Will you go to Bed? _Lady Brute._ To Bed, my Dear? And by that time I am fallen into a sweet Sleep (or perhaps a sweet Dream, which is better and better) Sir _John_ will come home roaring drunk, and be overjoy'd he finds me in a Condition to be disturb'd. _Bel._ O, you need not fear him; he's in for all Night. The Servants say he's gone to drink with my Lord _Rake_. _Lady Brute._ Nay, 'tis not very likely, indeed, such suitable Company should part presently. What Hogs Men turn, _Belinda_, when they grow weary of Women! _Bel._ And what Owls they are, whilst they are fond of 'em! _Lady Brute._ But That we may forgive well enough, because they are so upon our accounts.