Sir _Row._ What’s the matter! the disturbance! Why, Sister, this Rogue here--this unintelligible graceless Rascal here, will needs set up for a Rakehell, when there’s scarce such a thing in the Nation, above an Ale-draper’s Son; and chuses to be aukardly out of fashion, merely for the sake of Tricking and Poverty; and keeps company with the senseless, profane, lazy, idle, noisy, groveling Rascals, purely for the sake of spending his Estate like a notorious Blockhead: But I’ll take care he shall not have what I can dispose of--You’ll be a Rake-hell, will you? L. _Blun._ How, Cousin! Sure you’ll not be such a filthy beastly thing, will you? Sir _Mer._ Lord, Aunt, I only go to the Club sometimes, to improve my self in the Art of Living, and the Accomplishments of a fine Gentleman. Sir _Row._ A fine Gentleman, Sot, a fine Coxcomb! [Beats him. Sir _Morg._ Hold, hold, good Uncle; my Cousin has been only drawn in, a little or so, d’ye see, being Heir to a good Estate; and that’s what his Club wants, to pay off old Tavern Scores, and buy Utensils for Whores in Fashion. Sir _Row._ My Estate sold to pay Tavern-Scores, and keep nasty Whores! L. _Blun._ Whores! ay, filthy Creatures; do they deal in Whores? Pray, Cousin, what’s a Rake-hell? Sir _Row._ A Rake-hell is a Man that defies Law and good Manners, nay, and good Sense too; hates both Morality and Religion, and that not for any Reason (for he never thinks) but merely because he don’t understand ’.m: He’s the Whore’s Protection and Punishment, the Baud’s Tool, the Sharper’s Bubble, the Vintner’s Property, the Drawer’s Terror, the Glasier’s Benefactor; in short, a roaring, thoughtless, heedless, ridiculous, universal Coxcomb. Sir _Mer._ O Lord, Aunt, no more like him than an Attorney’s like an honest Man. Why, a Rake-hell is-- Sir _Row._ What, Sirrah! what, you Rebel? [Strikes him. L. _Blun._ Nay, good Brother, permit my Nephew to tell us his Notion. Sir _Mer._ Why, Aunt, I say a Rake-hell is your only Man of Bravery; he slights all the Force of Fortune, and sticks at no Hazard--plays away his hundred Pounds at sight, pays a Lady’s Bill at sight, drinks his Bottle without equivocation, and fights his Man without any Provocation. Sir _Row._ Nay then, Mr. Rogue, I’ll be sworn thou art none: Come, Sir, will you fight, Sir? will you fight, Sir? Ha! [Draws his Sword. Sir _Mer._ Fight, Sir! fight, Sir! Sir _Row._ Yes, fight, Sir: Come, spare your Prayers to the three Fatal Sisters, and cut my Thred thy self, thou graceless reprobate Rascal--Come, come on, you Man of Bravery. [Runs at Sir _Merlin_, who retires before him: Sir _Morgan_ holds Sir _Rowland_. Sir _Mer._ Oh, good Sir, hold: I recant, Sir, I recant.