Sir Char. Your only Heir.
Sir Tim. That’s more than you or any of his wise Associates can tell,
Sir.
Sir Char. Why his wise Associates? Have you any Exception to the Company he keeps? This reflects on me and young Dresswell, Sir, Men both of Birth and Fortune.
Sir Tim. Why, good Sir Charles Meriwill, let me tell you, since you’ll have it out, That you and young Dresswell are able to debauch, destroy, and confound all the young imitating Fops in Town.
Sir Char. How, Sir!
Sir Tim. Nay, never huff, Sir; for I have six thousand Pound a Year, and value no Man: Neither do I speak so much for your particular, as for the Company you keep, such Tarmagant Tories as these, [To Fop.] who are the very Vermin of a young Heir, and for one tickling give him a thousand bites.
Fop. Death! meaning me, Sir?
Sir Tim. Yes, you, Sir. Nay, never stare, Sir; I fear you not; No Man’s hectoring signifies this—in the City, but the Constables: no body dares be saucy here, except it be in the King’s name.
Sir Char. Sir, I confess he was to blame.
Sir Tim. Sir Charles, thanks to Heaven, you may be leud, you have a plentiful Estate, may whore, drink, game, and play the Devil: your Uncle, Sir Anthony Meriwill, intends to give you all his Estate too. But for such Sparks as this, and my Fop in Fashion here, why, with what Face, Conscience, or Religion, can they be leud and vitious, keep their Wenches, Coaches, rich Liveries, and so forth, who live upon Charity, and the Sins of the Nation?