Sir _Tim_. Say, Sir? why, I’ll deny it, Sir; for what Jury will believe so wise a Magistrate as I cou’d communicate such Secrets to such as you? I’ll say you forg’d ‘em, and put ‘em in--or print every one of ‘em, and own ‘em, as long as they were writ and publisht in London, Sir. Come, come, the World is not so bad yet, but a Man may speak Treason within the Walls of London, thanks be to God, and honest conscientious Jury-Men. And as for the Money, Gentlemen, take notice you rob the Party. _Wild_. Come, come, carry off the Booty, and prithee remove that Rubbish of the Nation out of the way--Your servant, Sir.--So, away with it to _Dresswell’s_ Lodgings, his Coach is at the Door ready to receive it. [_They carry off Sir_ Timothy, _and others take up the Bags, and go out with ‘em_. _Dres_. Well, you are sure you have all you came for? _Wild_. All’s safe, my Lads, the Writings all-- _Fop_. Come, let’s away then. _Wild_. Away? what meanest thou? is there not a Lord to be found bound in his Bed, and all his People? Come, come, dispatch, and each Man bind his Fellow. _Fop_. We had better follow the Baggage, Captain. _Wild_. No, we have not done so ill, but we dare shew our Faces. Come, come, to binding. _Fop_. And who shall bind the last Man? _Wild_. Honest Laboir, d’ye hear, Sirrah? you get drunk and lay in your Clothes under the Hall-Table; d’ye hear me? Look to’t, ye Rascal, and carry things discreetly, or you’ll be hang’d, that’s certain. [_Ex_. Wild, _and_ Dres. _Fop_. So, now will I i’th’ Morning to _Charlot_, and give her such a Character of her Love, as if she have Resentment, makes her mine. [_Exit_ Fop. Sir _Tim_. [_calls within_.] Ho, Jenkins, Roger, Simon! Where are these Rogues? none left alive to come to my Assistance? So ho, ho, ho, ho! Rascals, Sluggards, Drones! so ho, ho, ho! _Lab_. So, now’s my Cue--and stay, I am not yet sober. [_Puts himself into a drunken Posture_. Sir _Tim_. Dogs, Rogues, none hear me? Fire, fire, fire! _Lab_. Water, water, I say; for I am damnable dry. Sir _Tim_. Hah, who’s there? _Lab_. What doleful Voice is that? Sir _Tim_. What art thou, Friend or Foe? [_In a doleful Tone_. _Lab_. Very direful--why, what the Devil art thou? Sir _Tim_. If thou’rt a Friend, approach, approach the wretched. _Lab_. Wretched! What art thou, Ghost, Hobgoblin, or walking Spirit? [_Reeling in with a Lanthorn in’s Hand_. Sir _Tim_. Oh, neither, neither, but mere Mortal, Sir _Timothy Treat-all_, robb’d and bound. [_Coming out led by_ Laboir. _Lab_. How, our generous Host! Sir _Tim_. How, one of my Lord’s Servants! Alas, alas, how cam’st thou to escape?