Sir Tim. Do, countenance Sin and Expenccs, do.
Sir Anth. What Sin, what Expences? He wears good Clothes, why,
Trades-men get the more by him; he keeps his Coach, ‘tis for his Ease;
A Mistress, ‘tis for his Pleasure; he games, ‘tis for his Diversion: And
where’s the harm of this? is there ought else you can accuse him with?
Sir Tim. Yes,—a Pox upon him, he’s my Rival too. [Aside.
Why then I’ll tell you, Sir, he loves a Lady.
Sir Anth. If that be a Sin, Heaven help the Wicked!
Sir Tim. But I mean honourably—
Sir Anth. Honourably! why do you know any Infirmity in him, why he shou’d not marry? [Angrily.
Sir Tim. Not I, Sir.
Sir Anth. Not you, Sir? why then you’re an Ass, Sir—But is this Lady young and handsom?
Sir Tim. Ay, and rich too, Sir.
Sir Anth. No matter for Money, so she love the Boy.