Wild. God forgive me, Sir; I confess I was a little overtaken.
Sir Tim. Ay, so it shou’d seem: for he mistook his own Chamber, and went to bed to my Maid’s.
Sir Char. How! to bed to your Maid’s! Sure, Sir, ‘tis scandal on him.
Sir Tim. No, no, he makes his brags on’t, Sir. Oh, that crying Sin of Boasting! Well fare, I say, the Days of old Oliver, he by a wholesom Act made it death to boast; so that then a Man might whore his Heart out, and no body the wiser.
Sir Char. Right, Sir, and then the Men pass’d for sober religious
Persons, and the Women for as demure Saints—
Sir Tim. Ay, then there was no scandal; but now they do not only boast what they do, but what they do not.
Wild. I’ll take care that fault shall be mended, Sir.
Sir Tim. Ay, so will I, if Poverty has any Feats of Mortification; and
so farewel to you, Sir.
[Going.
Wild. Stay, Sir, are you resolv’d to be so cruel then, and ruin all my Fortunes now depending?
Sir Tim. Most religiously—