_Nick._ Pardon me there _Collonel_; are Pleasure and Business inconsistent, must ev'ry Citizen be a Drone, that crawls among Furr Gowns, or a Cuckold that's preferr'd by the Common-Hall; pray tell me, what difference is there between a Merchant of a good Education, and a Gentleman of Two Thousand Pounds a Year, only one has Threescore Thousand Pounds clear in his Pocket, and t'other an Estate that's mortgag'd to Threescore People; I have a House in _Billiter-Lane_, the Air's as good as _Pickadilly_. _Cornish_ makes my Cloaths, _Chevalier_ my Periwigs, I'm courted ev'ry Day to subscribe for singing Opera's, and have had Fifteen Actresses at my Levee, with their Benefit-Tickets. Sir _Har._ But, methinks, Mr. _Nicknack_; you that have so plentiful a Fortune, shou'd leave off Business, and reside wholly amongst Men of Figure and Estates. _Nick._ My Commerce, Sir _Harry_, is but in Impertinences without the least prospect of Gain; for the old Gentleman, when with great Industry, he had imported an Estate of Fifty Thousand Pounds, with greater Civility exported himself into the next World and left me all. Besides, Merchandize is but a sort of Gaming, and if I like it better than Hazard or Basset, why should any Man quarrel with my Genius; but, Gentlemen, your Servant. I must find out Lady _Rodomont_; for I have ingros'd the whole Ship's Cargo to my self, as my Father us'd to do Raw-Silk, and design her the first choice of ev'ry Thing. [_Exit._ _Col._ But what crabbed Don's this with the knavish Look of an old plodding Conveyancer, whose Face and Profession are enough to raise the Devil. Sir _Har._ 'Tis Major _Bramble_, a factious, seditious old Rogue, that's neither Whig, nor Tory, but an Enemy to his own Country; he hates the Government, because the Government don't like him; repines at all our Successes; and his Bosom Friends are Minters, Owlers, Pettifoggers, Nonjurors that won't swear to the Government, and _Irish_ Evidences that will swear to any thing. _Enter_ Major Bramble. Heav'n guard the Court!--What cursed Plot's now hatching, that brings the grumbling _Major_ to the _Park_? _Bram._ The Government, Sir _Harry_, will ne'er suspect my policy at plotting, when I have no more sense than to trust a Wit with it; but the Company I keep, may with wondrous ease form a Plot past your finding out. Sir _Har._ What, cowardly Bullies, tatter'd Gam'sters, and Fellows that have been twice transported, poor, unhappy scoundrels that disturb the Nation to please you rich Male-Contents, and are hang'd for their reward.