[_Each take a Glass, and force Sir_ Tim. _on his knees_. Sir _Char_.--Not bate ye an Ace, Sir. Come, his Majesty’s Health, and Confusion to his Enemies. [_They go to force his Mouth open to drink_. Sir _Tim_. Hold, Sir, hold, if I must drink, I must; but this is very arbitrary, methinks. [_Drinks_. Sir _Anth_. And now, Sir, to the Royal Duke of Albany. Musick, play a Scotch Jig. [_Music plays, they drink_. Sir _Tim_. This is mere Tyranny. _Enter_ Jervice. _Jer_. Sir, there is alighted at the Gate a Person of Quality, as appears by his Train, who give him the Title of a Lord. Sir _Tim_. How, a strange Lord! Conduct him up with Ceremony, _Jervice_-- ’.ds so, he’s here! _Enter_ Wilding _in disguise_, Dresswell, _and Footmen and Pages_. _Wild_. Sir, by your Reverend Aspect, you shou’d be the renown’d Mester de Hotel. Sir _Tim_. Mater de Otell! I have not the Honour to know any of that Name, I am call’d Sir _Timothy Treat-all_. [_Bowing_. _Wild_. The same, Sir; I have been bred abroad, and thought all Persons of Quality had spoke French. Sir _Tim_. Not City Persons of Quality, my Lord. _Wild_. I’m glad on’t, Sir; for ‘tis a Nation I hate, as indeed I do all Monarchies. Sir _Tim_. Hum! hate Monarchy! Your Lordship is most welcome. [_Bows_. _Wild_. Unless Elective Monarchies, which so resemble a Commonwealth. Sir _Tim_. Right, my Lord; where every Man may hope to take his turn-- Your Lordship is most singularly welcome. [_Bows low_. _Wild_. And though I am a Stranger to your Person, I am not to your Fame, amongst the sober Party of the Amsterdamians, all the French Hugonots throughout Geneva; even to Hungary and Poland, Fame’s Trumpet sounds your Praise, making the Pope to fear, the rest admire you. Sir _Anth_. I’m much oblig’d to the renowned Mobile. _Wild_. So you will say, when you shall hear my Embassy. The Polanders by me salute you, Sir, and have in this next new Election prick’d ye down for their succeeding King. Sir _Tim_. How, my Lord, prick’d me down for a King! Why, this is wonderful! Prick’d me, unworthy me down for a King! How cou’d I merit this amazing Glory! _Wild_. They know, he that can be so great a Patriot to his Native Country, where but a private Person, what must he be when Power is on his side? Sir _Tim_. Ay, my Lord, my Country, my bleeding Country! there’s the stop to all my rising Greatness. Shall I be so ungrateful to disappoint this big expecting Nation? defeat the sober Party, and my Neighbours, for any Polish Crown? But yet, my Lord, I will consider on’t: Mean time my House is yours. _Wild_. I’ve brought you, Sir, the Measure of the Crown: Ha, it fits you to a Hair. [_Pulls out a Ribband, measures his Head_. You were by Heav’n and Nature fram’d that Monarch.