Sir _Mer._ Why, how the Devil cam’st thou to bear thy Liquor so ill? Ods my Life, you drunk like a _Frenchman_ new come to the University. Sir _Morg._ Pox, I can bear their drinking as well as any Man; but your _London_ way of Bousing and Politics does not agree with my Constitution. Look ye, Cousin, set quietly to’t, and I’ll stand my ground; but to have screaming Whores, noisy Bullies, rattling Dice, swearing and cursing Gamesters, Couz. turns the Head of a Country-Drinker, more than the Wine. Sir _Mer._ Oh! Use, Cousin, will make an able Man. Sir _Morg._ Use, Cousin! Use me no Uses; for if ever you catch me at your damn’d Clubs again, I’ll give you my Mother for a Maid: Why, you talk downright Treason. Sir _Mer._ Treason, ay-- Sir _Morg._ Ah Cousin, why, we talk’d enough to--hang us all. Sir _Mer._ My honest Country-Couz. when wilt thou understand the _Guelphs_, and the _Gibelins_, and learn to talk Treason o’ this side the Law? bilk a Whore without remorse; break Windows, and not pay for ’.m; drink your Bottle without asking Questions; kill your Man without letting him draw; play away your Money without fear of your Spouse, and stop her Mouth by undermining her Nose? Sir _Morg._ Come, come, look you, Cousin, one word of Advice now I’m sober; what the Devil should provoke thee and me to put ourselves on our twelve Godfathers for a Frolick? We who have Estates. I shou’d be loth to leave the World with a scurvy Song, composed by the Poet _Sternhold_. Enter at the Door Sir _Rowland_, hearkning. Or why, d’ye see, shou’d I expose my Noddle to the Billmen in Flannel, and lie in the _Roundhouse_, when I may go to bed in a whole skin with my Lady Wife? Sir _Mer._ Gad, Sir _Morgan_, thou hast sometimes pretty smart satirical Touches with thee; use but _Will’s_ Coffee-house a little, and with thy Estate, and that Talent, thou mayst set up for a Wit. Sir _Morg._ Mercy upon me, Sir _Merlin_, thou art stark mad: What, I a Wit! I had rather be one of your Rakehells: for, look ye, a Man may swear and stare, or so; break Windows, and Drawers Heads, or so; unrig a needy Whore, and yet keep one’s Estate: but should I turn Wit, ‘twere impossible; for a Wit with an Estate is like a Prisoner among the Cannibals. Sir _Mer._ How so, good Sir _Morgan_? Sir _Morg._ Why, the needy Rogues only feed him with Praise, to fatten him for their Palates, and then devour him.