_Ran._ Thou art anything, but what thou shouldst be; prithee, Major, leave off being an old Buffoon, that is, a Lover turn’d ridiculous by Age, consider thy self a mere rouling Tun of _Nantz_,--a walking Chimney, ever smoaking with nasty Mundungus, and then thou hast a Countenance like an old worm-eaten Cheese. _Dull._ Well, Widow, you will joke, ha, ha, ha-- _Tim._ Gad’ Zoors, she’s pure company, ha, ha-- _Dull._ No matter for my Countenance,--Col. _Downright_ likes my Estate, and is resolved to have it a match. _Friend._ Dear Widow, take off your damned Major, for if he speak another word to _Chrisante_, I shall be put past all my patience, and fall foul upon him. _Ran._ S’life, not for the world--Major, I bar Love-making within my Territories, ‘tis inconsistent with the Punch-Bowl, if you’l drink, do, if not, be gone. _Tim._ Nay, Gad’s Zooks, if you enter me at the Punch-Bowl you enter me in Politicks--well, ‘tis the best Drink in Christendom for a Statesman. [They drink about, the Bagpipe playing. _Ran._ Come, now you shall see what my High-land Valet can do. [A _Scots_ Dance. _Dull._ So--I see, let the World go which way it will, Widow, you are resolv’d for mirth,--but come--to the conversation of the Times. _Ran._ The Times! why, what a Devil ails the Times? I see nothing in the Times but a Company of Coxcombs that fear without a Cause. _Tim._ But if these Fears were laid, and _Bacon_ were hanged, I look upon _Virginia_ to be the happiest part of the World, gads zoors,--why, there’s _England_--’tis nothing to’t,--I was in _England_ about six Years ago, and was shewed the Court of Aldermen, some were nodding, some saying nothing, and others very little to purpose; but how could it be otherwise, for they had neither Bowl of Punch, Bottles of Wine or Tobacco before ‘em, to put Life and Soul into ‘em as we have here: then for the young Gentlemen--their farthest Travels is to _France_ or _Italy_, they never come hither. _Dull._ The more’s the pity, by my troth. [Drinks. _Tim._ Where they learn to swear Mor-blew, Mor-dee-- _Friend._ And tell you how much bigger the _Louvre_ is than _Whitehall_; buy a suit a-la-mode, get a swinging Clap of some _French_ Marquise, spend all their Money, and return just as they went. _Dull._ For the old Fellows, their business is Usury, Extortion, and undermining young Heirs. _Tim._ Then for young Merchants, their Exchange is the Tavern, their Ware-house the Play-house, and their Bills of Exchange Billet-Douxs, where to sup with their Wenches at the other end of the Town,--now judge you what a condition poor _England_ is in: for my part I look upon it as a lost Nation, gads zoors. _Dull._ I have considered it, and have found a way to save all yet. _Tim._ As how, I pray?