Lady _Galliard_, a rich City-Widow, in love with | Mrs. _Barry_. _Wilding_, | _Charlot_, The City-Heiress, in love with _Wilding_, Mrs. _Butler_. _Diana_, Mistress to _Wilding_, and kept by him, Mrs. _Corror_. Mrs. _Clacket_, a City Baud and Puritan, Mrs. _Novice_. Mrs. _Closet_, Woman to Lady _Galliard_, Mrs. _Lee_. Mrs. _Sensure_, Sir _Timothy’s_ Housekeeper. _Betty_, Maid to _Diana_. Maid at _Charlot’s_ lodging. SCENE, _Within the Walls of_ London. ACT I. SCENE I. _The Street_. _Enter Sir_ Timothy Treat-all, _follow’d by_ Tom Wilding bare, Sir_ Charles Meriwill, Foppington, _and Footman with a Cloke_. Sir _Tim_. Trouble me no more: for I am resolv’d, deaf and obdurate, d’ye see, and so forth. _Wild_. I beseech ye, Uncle, hear me. Sir _Tim_. No. _Wild_. Dear Uncle-- Sir _Tim_. No. _Wild_. You will be mortify’d-- Sir _Tim_. No. _Wild_. At least hear me out, Sir. Sir _Tim_. No, I have heard you out too often, Sir, till you have talkt me out of many a fair Thousand; have had ye out of all the Bayliffs, Serjeants, and Constables Clutches about Town, Sir; have brought you out of all the Surgeons, Apothecaries, and pocky Doctors Hands, that ever pretended to cure incurable Diseases; and have crost ye out of the Books of all the Mercers, Silk-men, Exchange-men, Taylors, Shoemakers, and Sempstresses; with all the rest of the unconscionable City-tribe of the long Bill, that had but Faith enough to trust, and thought me Fool enough to pay. Sir _Char_. But, Sir, consider, he’s your own Flesh and Blood. Sir _Tim_. That’s more than I’ll swear. Sir _Char_. Your only Heir. Sir _Tim_. That’s more than you or any of his wise Associates can tell, Sir. Sir _Char_. Why his wise Associates? Have you any Exception to the Company he keeps? This reflects on me and young _Dresswell_, Sir, Men both of Birth and Fortune. Sir _Tim_. Why, good Sir _Charles Meriwill_, let me tell you, since you’ll have it out, That you and young _Dresswell_ are able to debauch, destroy, and confound all the young imitating Fops in Town. Sir _Char_. How, Sir! Sir _Tim_. Nay, never huff, Sir; for I have six thousand Pound a Year, and value no Man: Neither do I speak so much for your particular, as for the Company you keep, such Tarmagant Tories as these, [To Fop.] who are the very Vermin of a young Heir, and for one tickling give him a thousand bites. _Fop_. Death! meaning me, Sir? Sir _Tim_. Yes, you, Sir. Nay, never stare, Sir; I fear you not; No Man’s hectoring signifies this--in the City, but the Constables: no body dares be saucy here, except it be in the King’s name. Sir _Char_. Sir, I confess he was to blame.