And, Madam, I do most heartily recommend my most humble Address to your most judicious Consideration, hoping you will most vigorously, and with all your might, maintain the Rights and Privileges of the Honourable City; and not suffer the Force or Persuasion of any Arbitrary Lover whatsoever, to subvert their antient and Fundamental Laws, by seducing and forcibly bearing away so rich and so illustrious a Lady: and, Madam, we will unanimously stand by you with our Lives and Fortunes.--This I learnt from a Speech at the Election of a Burgess. [_Aside_. [_Leads her to the Door; She goes out with_ Betty _and_ Sensure. _Enter Musick playing, Sir_ Anthony Meriwill _dancing with a Lady in his Hand, Sir_ Charles with Lady_ Galliard, _several other Women and Men_. Sir _Anth_. [_singing_.] Philander _was a jolly Swain, And lov’d by ev’ry Lass; Whom when he met along the Plain, He laid upon the Grass. And here he kist, and there he play’d With this and then the t’other, Till every wanton smiling Maid At last became a Mother. And to her Swain, and to her Swain, The Nymph begins to yield; Ruffle, and breathe, then to’t again, Thou’rt Master of the Field_. [Clapping Sir _Char_, on the back. Sir _Char_. And if I keep it not, say I’m a Coward, Uncle. Sir _Anth_. More Wine there, Boys, I’ll keep the Humour up. [_Enter Bottles and Glasses_. Sir _Tim_. How! young Meriwill so close to the Widow--Madam-- [_Addressing himself to her. Sir_ Char. _puts him by_. Sir _Char_. Sir Timothy, why, what a Pox dost thou bring that damn’d Puritanical, Schismatical, Fanatical, Small-beer-Face of thine into good Company? Give him a full Glass to the Widow’s Health. Sir _Tim_. O lack, Sir _Charles_, no Healths for me, I pray. Sir _Char_. Hark ye, leave that cozening, canting, sanctify’d Sneer of yours, and drink ye me like a sober loyal Magistrate, all those Healths you are behind, from his sacred Majesty, whom God long preserve, with the rest of the Royal Family, even down to this wicked Widow, whom Heaven soon convert from her leud designs upon my Body. [_Pulling Sir_ Tim. _to kneel_. Sir _Anth_. A rare Boy! he shall have all my Estate. Sir _Tim_. How, the Widow a leud design upon his Body! Nay, then I am jealous. [_Aside_. L. _Gal_. I a leud design upon your Body; for what, I wonder? Sir _Char_. Why, for villanous Matrimony. L. _Gal_. Who, I? Sir _Char_. Who, you! yes, you. Why are those Eyes drest in inviting Love? Those soft bewitching Smiles, those rising Breasts, And all those Charms that make you so adorable, Is’t not to draw Fools into Matrimony? Sir _Anth_. How’s that, how’s that! _Charles_ at his Adorables and Charms! He must have t’other Health, he’ll fall to his old Dog-trot again else. Come, come, every man his Glass; Sir Timothy, you are six behind: Come, come, _Charles_, name ‘em all.