Sir Char. They are discoursing; I’ll pass by. [Aside. [Ex. Sir Charles.
Sir Anth. As I take it, you came from Church too.
Sir Tim. Ay, needs must when the Devil drives. I go to save my Bacon, as they say, once a Month, and that too after the Porridge is serv’d up.
Sir Anth. Those that made it, Sir, are wiser than we. For my part, I love good wholesom Doctrine, that teaches Obedience to the King and Superiors, without railing at the Government, and quoting Scripture for Sedition, Mutiny and Rebellion. Why here was a jolly Fellow this Morning made a notable Sermon. By George, our Country-Vicars are mere Scholars to your Gentlemen Town-Parsons! Hah, how he handled the Text, and run Divisions upon’t! ‘twould make a Man sin with moderation, to hear how he claw’d away the Vices of the Town, Whoring, Drinking, and Conventicling, with the rest of the deadly number.
Sir Tim. Good lack! an he were so good at Whoring and Drinking, you’d best carry your Nephew, Sir Charles Meriwill, to Church; he wants a little documentizing that way.
Sir Anth. Hum! you keep your old wont still; a Man can begin no
Discourse to you, be it of Prester John, but you still conclude with my
Nephew.
Sir Tim. Good Lord! Sir Anthony, you need not be so purty; what I say, is the Discourse of the whole City, how lavishly you let him live, and give ill Examples to all young Heirs.
Sir Anth. The City! The City’s a grumbling, lying, dissatisfy’d City, and no wise or honest Man regards what it says. Do you, or any of the City, stand bound to his Scrivener or Taylor? He spends what I allow him, Sir, his own; and you’re a Fool, or Knave, chuse ye whether, to concern your self.
Sir Tim. Good lack! I speak but what wiser Men discourse.
Sir Anth. Wiser Men! wiser Coxcombs. What, they wou’d have me train my Nephew up, a hopeful Youth, to keep a Merchant’s Book, or send him to chop Logick in an University, and have him returned an arrant learned Ass, to simper, and look demure, and start at Oaths and Wenches, whilst I fell his Woods, and grant Leases: And lastly, to make good what I have cozen’d him of, force him to marry Mrs. Crump, the ill-favour’d Daughter of some Right Worshipful.—A Pox of all of such Guardians!