L. _Gal_. There are indeed some Ladies that wou’d be angry at an untimely Visit, before they’ve put on their best Faces, but I am none of those that wou’d be fair in spite of Nature, Sir--Put on this Jewel here. [_To_ Clos. Sir _Char_. That Beauty needs no Ornament, Heaven has been too bountiful. Sir _Anth_. Heaven! Oh Lord, Heaven! a puritanical Rogue, he courts her like her Chaplain. [_Aside, vext_. L. _Gal_. You are still so full of University Complements-- Sir _Anth_. D’ye hear that, Sirrah?--Ay, so he is, indeed, Madam--To her like a Man, ye Knave. [_Aside to him_. Sir _Char_. Ah, Madam, I am come-- Sir _Anth_. To shew your self a Coxcomb. L. _Gal_. To tire me with Discourses of your Passion-- Fie, how this Curl fits! [Looking in the Glass. Sir _Char_. No, you shall hear no more of that ungrateful Subject. Sir _Anth_. Son of a Whore, hear no more of Love, damn’d Rogue! Madam, by George, he lyes; he does come to speak of Love, and make Love, and to do Love, and all for Love--Not come to speak of Love, with a Pox! Owns, Sir, behave your self like a Man; be impudent, be saucy, forward, bold, touzing, and leud, d’ye hear, or I’ll beat thee before her: why, what a Pox! [_Aside to him, he minds it not_. Sir _Char_. Finding my Hopes quite lost in your unequal Favours to young _Wilding_, I’m quitting of the Town. L. _Gal_. You will do well to do so--lay by that Necklace, I’ll wear Pearl to day. [_To_ Clos. Sir _Anth_. Confounded Blockhead!--by George, he lyes again, Madam. A Dog, I’ll disinherit him. [_Aside_.] He quit the Town, Madam! no, not whilst your Ladyship is in it, to my Knowledge. He’ll live in the Town, nay, in the Street where you live; nay, in the House; nay, in the very Bed, by George; I’ve heard him a thousand times swear it. Swear it now, Sirrah: look, look, how he stands now! Why, dear _Charles_, good Boy, swear a little, ruffle her, and swear, damn it, she shall have none but thee. [_Aside to him_.] Why, you little think, Madam, that this Nephew of mine is one of the maddest Fellows in all Devonshire. L. _Gal_. Wou’d I cou’d see’t, Sir. Sir _Anth_. See’t! look ye there, ye Rogue--Why, ‘tis all his Fault, Madam. He’s seldom sober; then he has a dozen Wenches in pay, that he may with the more Authority break their Windows. There’s never a Maid within forty Miles of Meriwill-Hall to work a Miracle on, but all are Mothers. He’s a hopeful Youth, I’ll say that for him. Sir _Char_. How I have lov’d you, my Despairs shall witness: for I will die to purchase your Content. [_She rises_. Sir _Anth_. Die, a damn’d Rogue! Ay, ay, I’ll disinherit him: A Dog, die, with a Pox! No, he’ll be hang’d first, Madam. Sir _Char_. And sure you’ll pity me when I’m dead. Sir _Anth_. A curse on him; pity, with a Pox. I’ll give him ne’er a Souse. L. _Gal_. Give me that Essence-bottle. [_To_ Clos.