Sir _Tun._ Sir _John_, you are the welcom'st Man alive; I had just sent a Messenger to desire you'd step over, upon a very extraordinary Occasion--we are all in Arms here. Sir _John._ How so? Sir _Tun._ Why, you must know----a sinical sort of a tawdry Fellow here (I don't know who the Devil he is, not I) hearing, I suppose, that the Match was concluded between my Lord _Foppington_ and my Girl _Hoyden_, comes impudently to the Gate, and with a whole Pack of Rogues in Liveries, wou'd have pass'd upon me for his Lordship: But what does I? I comes up to him boldly at the Head of his Guards, takes him by the Throat, strikes up his Heels, binds him Hand and Foot, dispatches a Warrant, and commits him Prisoner to the Dog-kennel. Sir _John._ So, but how do you know but this was my Lord? for I was told he set out from _London_ the Day before me, with a very fine Retinue, and intended to come directly hither. Sir _Tun._ Why now to shew you how many Lies People raise in that damn'd Town, he came two Nights ago Post, with only one Servant, and is now in the House with me: But you don't know the Cream of the Jest yet; this same Rogue, (that lies yonder Neck and Heels among the Hounds) thinking you were out of the Country, quotes you for his Acquaintance, and said, if you were here, you'd justify him to be Lord _Foppington_, and I know not what. Sir _John._ Pray will you let me see him? Sir _Tun._ Ay, that you shall presently----here, fetch the Prisoner. [_Exit Servant._ Sir _John._ I wish there ben't some Mistake in the Business, where's my Lord? I know him very well. Sir _Tun._ He was here just now; see for him, Doctor, tell him Sir _John_ is here to wait upon him. [_Ex. Chaplain._ Sir _John._ I hope, Sir _Tunbelly_, the young Lady is not married yet. Sir _Tun._ No, things won't be ready this Week; but why do you say, you hope she is not married? Sir _John._ Some foolish Fancies only, perhaps I'm mistaken. _Re-enter Chaplain._ _Bull._ Sir, his Lordship is just rid out to take the Air. Sir _Tun._ To take the Air! Is that his _London_ Breeding, to go to take the Air, when Gentlemen come to visit him? Sir _John._ 'Tis possible he might want it, he might not be well, some sudden Qualm perhaps. _Enter Constable, ~&c.~ with Lord ~Foppington~._ _Lord Fop._ Stap my Vitals, I'll have Satisfaction. Sir _John._ [_Running to him._] My dear Lord _Foppington_! _Lord Fop._ Dear _Friendly_, thou art come in the critical Minute, strike me dumb. Sir _John._ Why, I little thought to have found you in Fetters. _Lord Fop._ Why truly the World must do me the justice to confess, I do use to appear, a little more _degagé_: But this old Gentleman, not liking the Freedom of my Air, has been pleased to skewer down my Arms like a Rabbit.