Sir _Tim_. Who, I, Sir? You do me much Honour: I must confess I do not find the softer Sex cruel; I am received as well as another Man of my Parts. _Friend_. Of your Money you mean, Sir. Sir _Tim_. Why, ‘faith, _Ned_, thou art i’th’ right; I love to buy my Pleasure: for, by Fortune, there’s as much pleasure in Vanity and Variety, as any Sins I know; What think’st thou, _Ned?_ _Friend_. I am not of your Mind, I love to love upon the square; and that I may be sure not to be cheated with false Ware, I present ‘em nothing but my Heart. Sir _Tim_. Yes, and have the Consolation of seeing your frugal huswifery Miss in the Pit, at a Play, in a long Scarf and Night-gown, for want of Points, and Garniture. _Friend_. If she be clean, and pretty, and drest in Love, I can excuse the rest, and so will she. Sir _Tim_. I vow to Fortune, _Ned_, thou must come to _London_, and be a little manag’d: ‘slife, Man, shouldst thou talk so aloud in good Company, thou wouldst be counted a strange Fellow. Pretty--and drest with Love--a fine Figure, by Fortune: No, _Ned_, the painted Chariot gives a Lustre to every ordinary Face, and makes a Woman look like Quality; Ay, so like, by Fortune, that you shall not know one from t’other, till some scandalous, out-of-favour’d laid-aside Fellow of the Town, cry--Damn her for a Bitch--how scornfully the Whore regards me--She has forgot since _Jack_--such a one, and I, club’d for the keeping of her, when both our Stocks well manag’d wou’d not amount to above seven Shillings six Pence a week; besides now and then a Treat of a Breast of Mutton from the next Cook’s.--Then the other laughs, and crys--Ay, rot her--and tells his Story too, and concludes with, Who manages the Jilt now; Why, faith, some dismal Coxcomb or other, you may be sure, replies the first. But, _Ned_, these are Rogues, and Rascals, that value no Man’s Reputation, because they despise their own. But faith, I have laid aside all these Vanities, now I have thought of Matrimony; but I desire my Reformation may be a Secret, because, as you know, for a Man of my Address, and the rest--’tis not altogether so Jantee. _Friend_. Sir, I assure you, it shall be so great a Secret for me, that I will never ask you who the happy Woman is, that’s chosen for this great Work of your Conversion. Sir _Tim_. Ask me--No, you need not, because you know already. _Friend_. Who, I? I protest, Sir _Timothy_-- Sir _Tim_. No Swearing, dear _Ned_, for ‘tis not such a Secret, but I will trust my Intimates: these are my Friends, _Ned_; pray know them--This Mr. _Sham_, and this--by Fortune, a very honest Fellow [_Bows to ‘em_] Mr. _Sharp_, and may be trusted with a Bus’ness that concerns you as well as me. _Friend_. Me! What do you mean, Sir _Timothy_? Sir _Tim_. Why, Sir, you know what I mean. _Friend_. Not I, Sir. Sir _Tim_. What, not that I am to marry your Sister _Celinda_? _Friend_. Not at all. _Bel_. O, this insufferable Sot! [_Aside_.