Wild. Damn him, I’ve lost all Patience, and can dissemble no longer, though I lose all—Very good, Sir; harkye, I hope she’s young and handsome; or if she be not, amongst the numerous lusty-stomacht Whigs that daily nose your publick Dinners, some maybe found, that either for Money, Charity, or Gratitude, may requite your Treats. You keep open House to all the Party, not for Mirth, Generosity or good Nature, but for Roguery. You cram the Brethren, the pious City-Gluttons, with good Cheer, good Wine, and Rebellion in abundance, gormandizing all Comers and Goers, of all Sexes, Sorts, Opinions and Religions, young half-witted Fops, hot-headed Fools, and Malecontents: You guttle and fawn on all, and all in hopes of debauching the King’s Liege-people into Commonwealthsmen; and rather than lose a Convert, you’ll pimp for him. These are your nightly Debauches—Nay, rather than you shall want it, I’ll cuckold you my self in pure Revenge.
Sir Tim. How! Cuckold his own natural Uncle!
Sir Char. Oh, he cannot be so profane.
Wild. Profane! why he deny’d but now the having any share in me; and therefore ‘tis lawful. I am to live by my Wits, you say, and your old rich good-natur’d Cuckold is as sure a Revenue to a handsome young Cadet, as a thousand Pound a Year. Your tolerable Face and Shape is an Estate in the City, and a better Bank than your Six per Cent, at any time.
Sir Tim. Well, Sir, since Nature has furnisht you so well, you need but up and ride, show and be rich; and so your Servant, witty Mr. Wilding. [Goes out. He looks after him.
Sir Char. Whilst I am labouring another’s good, I quite neglect my own. This cursed, proud, disdainful Lady Galliard, is ever in my Head; she’s now at Church, I’m sure, not for Devotion, but to shew her Charms, and throw her Darts amongst the gazing Croud; and grows more vain by Conquest. I’m near the Church, and must step in, though it cost me a new Wound. [Wild, stands pausing.
Wild. I am resolv’d—Well, dear Charles, let’s sup together to night, and contrive some way to e reveng’d of this wicked Uncle of mine. I must leave thee now, for I have an Assignation here at Church.
Sir Char. Hah! at Church!
Wild. Ay, Charles with the dearest She-Saint, and I hope Sinner.
Sir Char. What, at Church? Pox, I shall be discover’d now in my Amours.
That’s an odd place for Love-Intrigues.