Sir _Char_. Well, well, I’ll be content with Performance then to night, and trust you for your Promise till to morrow. Sir _Anth_. [_peeping_.] Ah, Rogue! by George, he out-does my Expectations of him. L. _Gal_. What Imposition’s this! I’ll call for help. _Sir. Char_. You need not, you’ll do my business better alone. [_Pulls her_. L. _Gal_. What shall I do? how shall I send him hence? [_Aside_. Sir _Anth_. He shall ne’er drink small Beer more, that’s positive; I’ll burn all’s Books too, they have help’d to spoil him; and sick or well, sound or unsound, Drinking shall be his Diet, and Whoring his Study. [_Aside, peeping unseen_. Sir _Char_. Come, come, no pausing; your Promise, or I’ll to Bed. [_Offers to pull off his Breeches, having pulled off almost all the rest of his Clothes_. L. _Gal_. What shall I do? here is no Witness near: And to be rid of him I’ll promise him; he’ll have forgot it in his sober Passion. [_Aside_. Hold, I do swear I will-- [_He fumbling to undo his Breeches_. Sir _Char_. What? L. _Gal_. Marry you. Sir _Char_. When? L. _Gal_. Nay, that’s too much--Hold, hold, I will to morrow--Now you are satisfy’d, you will withdraw? _Enter Sir_ Anth. _and_ Closet. Sir _Anth. Charles_, Joy, _Charles_, give you Joy, here’s two substantial Witnesses. _Clos_. I deny it, Sir; I heard no such thing. Sir _Anth_. What, what, Mrs. Closet, a Waiting-woman of Honour, and flinch from her Evidence! Gad, I’ll damn thy Soul if thou dar’st swear what thou say’st. L. _Gal_. How, upon the Catch, Sir! am I betray’d? Base and unkind, is this your humble Love? Is all your whining come to this, false Man? By Heaven, I’ll be reveng’d. [_She goes out in a Rage with_ Closet. Sir _Char_. Nay, Gad, you’re caught, struggle and flounder as you please, Sweetheart, you’ll but intangle more; let me alone to tickle your Gills, i’faith. [_Looking after her_.--Uncle, get ye home about your Business; I hope you’ll give me the good morrow, as becomes me--I say no more, a Word to the Wise-- Sir _Anth_. By George, thou’rt a brave Fellow; why, I did not think it had been in thee, Man. Well, adieu; I’ll give thee such a good morrow, _Charles_--the Devil’s in him!--’Bye, Charles--a plaguy Rogue!--’night, Boy--a divine Youth! [_Going and returning, as not able to leave him. Exit_. Sir _Char_. Gad, I’ll not leave her now, till she is mine; Then keep her so by constant Consummation. Let Man o’ God do his, I’ll do my Part, In spite of all her Fickleness and Art; There’s one sure way to fix a Widow’s Heart. [_Exit_. ACT V. SCENE I. _Sir_ Timothy’s _House_. _Enter_ Dresswell, Foppington, Laboir, _and five or six more disguised with Wizards and dark Lanthorns_.