Sir _Tim_. Nay, never be surpriz’d, for your Intrigues are discover’d, the good Matron of the House (against her Will) has done me that kindness--you know how to live without your Keeper, and so I’ll leave you. _Flaunt_. You’re too serviceable a Fool to be lost so. [_Aside_. _Bel_. Who knows this bold Intruder? _Char_. How, Sir, am I a Stranger to you? But I shou’d wonder at it, since all your last Night’s Actions betray’d a strange depravity of Sense.--Sir, I have sought you long, and wish I had not found you yet, since both the Place and Company declare, how grossly you’ve dissembled Virtue all this while. _Bel_. Take hence that prating Boy. _Char_. How, Sir--You are my elder Brother, yet I may be allow’d to do the Business that I came for, and from my Uncle to demand your Wife. _Bel_. You may return, and tell him that she’s dead. _Char_. Dead! sure, Sir, you rave. [_Turns him about_. _Bel_. Indeed I do--but yet she’s dead, they say. _Char_. How came she dead? _Bel_. I kill’d her--ask no more, but leave me. [_Turns him about again_. _Char_. Sir, this is Madman’s Language, and not to be believed. _Bel_. Go to--y’are a saucy Boy. _Char_. Sir, I’m an angry Boy-- But yet can bear much from a Brother’s Mouth; Y’ave lost your sleep: pray, Sir, go home and seek it. _Bel_. Home! I have no Home, unless thou mean’st my Grave, And thither I cou’d wish thou wou’d conduct me. [_Weeps_. _Flaunt_. Pray Heaven this young virtuous Fellow don’t spoil all. --Sir, shall I send for a Scrivener to draw the Settlement you promis’d me? _Bel_. Do so, and I’ll order him to get it ready. _Char_. A Settlement! On whom? This Woman, Sir? _Bel_. Yes, on this Woman, Sir. _Char_. Are you stark mad?--Know you where you are? _Bel_. Yes, in a Baudy-house. _Char_. And this Woman, Sir.-- _Bel_. A very Whore--a tawdry mercenary Whore! And what of this? _Char_. And can you love her, Sir? _Bel_. No, if I did, I wou’d not gratify her. _Char_. What, is’t in Charity to keep her honest? _Bel_. Neither. _Char_. Is your Lust grown so high-- _Bel_. Take that-- [_Strikes him_. For naming but so base a thing to me. _Char_. I wear a Sword, but not to draw on Mad-men. But since y’are so free, Sir, I demand that Fortune, which by my Father’s Will y’are bound to pay the day after your Wedding-Day; my Sister’s too is due. _Bel_. Ha, ha, ha,--Sir _Timothy_, come hither--who dost think this is? Sir _Tim_. A Fidler, perhaps--let him play in the next Room. _Bel_. No, my Brother--come to demand his Portion of me; he says I am in leud Company, and, like a Boy, he wou’d correct me. Sir _Tim_. Why, this comes of Idleness; thou should’st have bound him Prentice in time, the Boy would have made a good saucy Taylor. _Char_. Sirrah, y’are a Rascal, whom I must thus chastise. [_Kicks him_.