SCENE II. A Chamber. Enter Sir _Morgan Blunder_ in a Night-Gown and Cap; to him _Manage_ with a Caudle. _Man._ Your Lady Mother has sent you a Caudle, Sir. Sir _Morg._ Good Mrs. _Manage_, remember my kind Love to my Lady Mother, and tell her, I thank her for her Posset, but never eat in a Morning after hard drinking over night. _Man._ Ah, Sir, but now you’re marry’d to a fine Lady, you ought to make much of your self. Sir _Morg._ Good Madam, as little of your Matrimony as of your Caudle; my Stomach is plaguy squeamish, and a hair of the old Dog’s worth both of ‘em. Oh! sick! sick! Enter Sir _Merlin_, singing a Song in praise of a Rake-hell’s Life. A SONG. The _Town-Rake_; written by Mr. _Motteux_. I. _What Life can compare with the jolly Town-Rake’s, When in Youth his full Swing of all Pleasure he takes? At Noon, he gets up, for a Whet, and to dine, And wings the dull Hours with Mirth, Musick and Wine; Then jogs to the _Play-house_, and chats with the Masks, And thence to the _Rose_, where he takes his three Flasks. There, great as a _Cæsar_, he revels, when drunk, And scours all he meets, as he reels to his Punk; Then finds the dear Girl in his Arms when he wakes. What Life can compare with the Jolly Town-Rake’s?_ II. _He, like the _Great Turk_, has his Favourite She; But the Town’s his _Seraglio_, and still he lives free. Sometimes she’s a Lady; but as he must range, _Black-Betty_, or _Oyster-Doll_, serves for a Change. As he varies his Sports, his whole Life is a Feast; He thinks him that’s soberest the most like a Beast. At Houses of Pleasure breaks Windows and Doors; Kicks Bullies and Cullies, then lies with their Whores. Rare work for the Surgeon, and Midwife he makes. What Life can compare with the Jolly Town-Rake’s?_ III. _Thus in _Covent-Garden_ he makes his Campaign, And no Coffee-house haunts, but to settle his Brain. He laughs at dry Morals, and never does think, Unless ‘tis to get the best Wenches and Drink. He dwells in a Tavern, and lies ev’ry where, And improving his hours, lives an Age in a Tear: For as Life is uncertain, he loves to make haste; And thus he lives longest, because he lives fast: Then a Leap in the dark to the Devil he takes. What Death can compare with the Jolly Town-Rake’s?_ Sir _Mer._ Why, how now, Sir _Morgan_, I see you’ll make a Husband of the right Town-Mode: What, married but four Days, and at your separate Apartment already? Sir _Morg._ A Plague of your what d’ye call ums. Sir _Mer._ Rakehells you would say, Cousin, an honourable Appellation for Men of Bravery. Sir _Morg._ Ay, ay, your Rakehells--I was never so muddled with Treason, Tierce Claret, Oaths and Dice, all the Days of my Life--Was I in case to do Family duty? S’life, you drank down all my Love, all my Prudence too; Gad forgive me for it.