Sir _Tim_. Yes,--a Pox upon him, he’s my Rival too. [_Aside_. Why then I’ll tell you, Sir, he loves a Lady. Sir _Anth_. If that be a Sin, Heaven help the Wicked! Sir _Tim_. But I mean honourably-- Sir _Anth_. Honourably! why do you know any Infirmity in him, why he shou’d not marry? [_Angrily_. Sir _Tim_. Not I, Sir. Sir _Anth_. Not you, Sir? why then you’re an Ass, Sir--But is this Lady young and handsom? Sir _Tim_. Ay, and rich too, Sir. Sir _Anth_. No matter for Money, so she love the Boy. Sir _Tim_. Love him! No, Sir, she neither does, nor shall love him. Sir _Anth_. How, Sir, nor shall love him! By _George_, but she shall, and lie with him too, if I please, Sir. Sir _Tim_. How, Sir! lie with a rich City-Widow, and a Lady, and to be married to a fine Reverend old Gentleman within a day or two? Sir _Anth_. His Name, Sir, his Name; I’ll dispatch him presently. [_Offers to draw_. Sir _Tim_. How, Sir, dispatch him!--Your Servant, Sir. [_Offers to go_. Sir _Anth_. Hold, Sir! by this abrupt departure, I fancy you the Boy’s Rival: Come, draw. [_Draws_. Sir _Tim_. How, draw, Sir! Sir _Anth_. Ay, draw, Sir; not my Nephew have the Widow! Sir _Tim_. With all my Soul, Sir; I love and honour your Nephew. I his Rival! alas, Sir, I’m not so fond of Cuckoldom. Pray, Sir, let me see you and Sir _Charles_ at my House, I may serve him in this business; and so I take my leave, Sir--Draw quoth-a! Pox upon him for an old Tory-rory. [_Aside_. [_Exit_. _Enter as from Church, L_. Galliard, Closet, _and Footman_: Wilding _passes carelessly by her, Sir_ Charles Meriwill _following, wrapt up in his Cloke_. Sir _Anth_. Who’s here? _Charles_ muffled in a Cloke peering after a Woman? My own Boy to a Hair! She’s handsom too. I’ll step aside; for I must see the meaning on’t. [_Goes aside_. L. _Gal_. Bless me! how unconcern’d he pass’d! _Clos_. He bow’d low, Madam. L. _Gal_. But ‘twas in such a fashion, as exprest Indifferency, much worse than Hate from _Wilding_. _Clos_. Your Ladyship has us’d him ill of late; yet if your Ladyship please, I’ll call him back. L. _Gal_. I’ll die first--Hah, he’s going! Yet now I think on’t I have a Toy of his, which to express my scorn, I’ll give him back now--this Ring. _Clos_. Shall I carry it, Madam? L. _Gal_. You’ll not express Disdain enough in the Delivery; and you may call him back. [Clos. _goes to_ Wild. Sir _Char_. By Heaven, she’s fond of him. [_Aside_. _Wild_. Oh, Mrs. Closet! is it you?--Madam, your Servant: By this Disdain, I fear your Woman, Madam, has mistaken her Man. Wou’d your Ladyship speak with me? L. _Gal_. Yes.--But what? the God of Love instruct me. [_Aside_.