_Flirt._ Your Honour knows this is a scandalous place, for they say your Honour was but a broken Excise-Man, who spent the King’s Money to buy your Wife fine Petticoats; and at last not worth a Groat, you came over a poor Servant, though now a Justice of the Peace, and of the Honourable Council. _Tim._ Adz zoors, if I knew who ‘twas said so, I’d sue him for _Scandalum Magnatum_. _Dull._ Hang ‘em, Scoundrels, hang ‘em, they live upon Scandal, and we are Scandal-proof.--They say too, that I was a Tinker, and running the Country, robb’d a Gentleman’s House there, was put into _Newgate_, got a Reprieve after Condemnation, and was transported hither; --and that you, _Boozer_, was a common Pick-pocket, and being often flogg’d at the Carts-tale, afterwards turn’d Evidence, and when the Times grew honest was fain to flie. _Booz._ Ay, ay, Major, if Scandal would have broke our Hearts, we had not arriv’d to the Honour of being Privy-Counsellors.--But come, Mrs. _Flirt_, what, never a Song to entertain us? _Flirt._ Yes, and a Singer too newly come ashore. _Tim._ Adz zoors, let’s have it then. Enter a Girl who sings, they bear the Bob. _Haz._ Here, Maid, a Tankard of your Drink. _Flirt._ Quickly, _Nell_, wait upon the Gentleman. _Dull._ Please you, Sir, to taste of our Liquor.--My service to you. I see you are a Stranger, and alone; please you to come to our Table? [He rises and comes. _Flirt._ Come, Sir, pray sit down here; these are very honourable Persons, I assure you: This is Major _Dullman_, Major of his Excellency’s own Regiment, when he arrives; this Mr. _Timorous_, Justice a Peace in _Corum_; this Captain _Boozer_, all of the honourable Council. _Haz._ With your leave, Gentlemen. [Sits. _Tim._ My service to you, Sir. [Drinks. What, have you brought over any Cargo, Sir? I’ll be your Customer. _Booz._ Ay, and cheat him too, I’ll warrant him. [Aside. _Haz._ I was not bred to Merchandizing, Sir, nor do intend to follow the drudgery of Trading. _Dull._ Men of Fortune seldom travel hither, Sir, to see Fashions. _Tim._ Why, Brother, it may be the Gentleman has a mind to be a Planter; will you hire your self to make a Crop of Tobacco this Year? _Haz._ I was not born to work, Sir. _Tim._ Not work, Sir! Zoors, your Betters have workt, Sir. I have workt my self, Sir, both set and stript Tobacco, for all I am of the honourable Council. Not work, quoth a!--I suppose, Sir, you wear your Fortune upon your Back, Sir? _Haz._ Is it your Custom here, Sir, to affront Strangers? I shall expect Satisfaction. [Rises. _Tim._ Why, does any body here owe you any thing? _Dull._ No, unless he means to be paid for drinking with us,--ha, ha, ha. _Haz._ No, Sir, I have money to pay for what I drink: here’s my Club, my Guinea, [Flings down a Guinea. I scorn to be oblig’d to such Scoundrels. _Booz._ Hum--call Men of Honour Scoundrels. [Rise in huff.