_Lod._ Shaw--not sufficient to pay Surgeons Bills. Sir _Cred._ Alas, poor Rat, how does he live then? _Lod._ Hang him, the Ladies keep him; ‘tis a good handsome Fellow, and has a pretty Town-Wit. Sir _Cred._ He a Wit! what, I’ll warrant he writes Lampoons, rails at Plays, curses all Poetry but his own, and mimicks the Players--ha. _Lod._ Some such common Notions he has that deceives the ignorant Rabble, amongst whom he passes for a very smart Fellow,--’life, he’s here. Enter _Leander_. Sir _Cred._ Why, what shall I do, he will not affront me before Company? hah! _Lod._ Not in our House, Sir,--bear up and take no notice on’t. [_Lod._ whispers _Lean._ Sir _Cred._ No notice, quoth he? why, my very Fears will betray me. _Lean._ Let me alone--_Lodwick_, I met just now with an _Italian_ Merchant, who has made me such a Present! _Lod._ What is’t prithee? _Lean._ A Sort of specifick Poison for all the Senses, especially for that of smelling; so that had I a Rival, and I should see him at any reasonable distance, I could direct a little of this Scent up to his Brain so subtlely, that it shall not fail of Execution in a day or two. Sir _Cred._ How--Poison! [Shewing great Signs of Fear, and holding his Nose. _Lean._ Nay, shou’d I see him in the midst of a thousand People, I can so direct it, that it shall assault my Enemy’s Nostrils only, without any effects on the rest of the Company. Sir _Cred._ Oh,--I’m a dead Man! _Lod._ Is’t possible? _Lean._ Perhaps some little sneezing or so, no harm; but my Enemy’s a dead Man, Sir, kill’d. Sir _Cred._ Why, this is the most damn’d _Italian_ Trick I ever heard of; why, this outdoes the famous Poisoner Madam _Brenvilliers_; well, here’s no jesting, I perceive that, _Lodwick_. _Lod._ Fear nothing, I’ll secure you. [Aside to him. Enter _Wittmore_. --_Wittmore!_ how is’t, Friend! thou lookest cloudy. _Wit._ You’ll hardly blame me, Gentlemen, when you shall know what a damn’d unfortunate Rascal I am. _Lod._ Prithee what’s the matter? _Wit._ Why, I am to be marry’d, Gentlemen, marry’d to day. _Lod._ How, marry’d! nay, Gad, then thou’st reason; but to whom prithee? _Wit._ There’s the Devil on’t again, to a fine young fair, brisk Woman, that has all the Temptations Heaven can give her. _Lod._ What pity ‘tis they shou’d be bestow’d to so wicked an end! Is this your Intrigue, that has been so long conceal’d from your Friends? _Lean._ We thought it had been some kind Amour, something of Love and Honour. _Lod._ Is she rich? if she be wondrous rich, we’ll excuse thee. _Wit._ Her Fortune will be suitable to the Jointure I shall make her. _Lod._ Nay then ‘tis like to prove a hopeful Match; what a Pox can provoke thee to this, dost love her? _Wit._ No, there’s another Plague, I am cursedly in love elsewhere; and this was but a false Address, to hide that real one. _Lod._ How, love another? in what quality and manner?