_Lord Fop._ Faith, _Tam_, I must beg you'll excuse me at this time, for I must away to the House of Lards immediately; my Lady _Teaser_'s Case is to come on to-day, and I would not be absent for the Salvation of Mankind. Hey, _Page_! Is the Coach at the Door? _Page._ Yes, my Lord. _Lord Fop._ You'll excuse me, Brother. [_Going._ _Young Fash._ Shall you be back at Dinner? _Lord Fop._ As Gad shall jedge me, I can't tell; for 'tis passible I may dine with some of aur Hause at _Lacket_'s. _Young Fash._ Shall I meet you there? for I must needs talk with you. _Lord Fop._ That, I'm afraid, mayn't be so praper; far the Lards I commonly eat with, are a People of a nice Conversation; and you know, _Tam_, your Education has been a little at large: but if you'll stay here, you'll find a Family Dinner. Hey, Fellow! What is there for Dinner? There's Beef: I suppose my Brother will eat Beef. Dear _Tam_, I'm glad to see thee in _England_, stap my Vitals. [_Exit, with his Equipage._ _Young Fash._ Hell and Furies, is this to be borne? _Lory._ Faith, Sir, I cou'd almost have given him a knock o' th' Pate myself. _Young Fash._ 'Tis enough, I will now shew you the excess of my Passion by being very calm: Come, _Lory_, lay your Loggerhead to mine, and in cool Blood let us contrive his Destruction. _Lory._ Here comes a Head, Sir, would contrive it better than us both, if he wou'd but join in the Confederacy. _Enter ~Coupler~._ _Young Fash._ By this Light, old _Coupler_ alive still! Why, how now, Matchmaker, art thou here still to plague the World with Matrimony? You old Bawd, how have you the Impudence to be hobbling out of your Grave twenty Years after you are rotten! _Coup._ When you begin to rot, Sirrah, you'll go off like a Pippin, one Winter will send you to the Devil. What Mischief brings you home again? Ha! You young lascivious Rogue, you: Let me put my Hand into your Bosom, Sirrah. _Young Fash._ Stand off, old _Sodom_. _Coup._ Nay, pr'ythee now don't be so coy. _Young Fash._ Keep your Hands to yourself, you old Dog you, or I'll wring your Nose off. _Coup._ Hast thou then been a Year in _Italy_, and brought home a Fool at last? By my Conscience, the young Fellows of this Age profit no more by their going abroad, than they do by their going to Church. Sirrah, Sirrah, if you are not hang'd before you come to my Years, you'll know a Cock from a Hen. But come, I'm still a Friend to thy Person, tho' I have a Contempt of thy Understanding; and therefore I would willingly know thy Condition, that I may see whether thou standest in need of my Assistance; for Widows swarm, my Boy, the Town's infested with 'em. _Young Fash._ I stand in need of any body's Assistance, that will help me to cut my elder Brother's Throat, without the Risque of being hang'd for him.