Dres. Whither? but I’ll not ask, but obey.
Wild. To a kind Sinner, Frank.
Dres. Pox on ‘em all; prithee turn out those petty Tyrants of thy Heart, and fit it for a Monarch, Love, dear Wilding, of which them never knew’st the Pleasure yet or not above a day.
Wild. Not knew the Pleasure! Death, the very Essence the first Draughts of Love. Ah, how pleasant ‘tis to drink when a Man’s a dry! The rest is all but dully sipping on.
Dres. And yet this Diana, for thither thou art going, thou hast been constant to this three or four Years.
Wild. A constant Keeper thou mean’st; which is indeed enough to get the Scandal of a Coxcomb: But I know not, those sort of Baggages have a kind of Fascination so inticing—and faith, after the Fatigues of formal Visits to a Man’s dull Relations, or what’s as bad, to Women of Quality; after the busy Afflictions of the Day, and the Debauches of the tedious Night, I tell thee, Frank, a Man’s best Retirement is with a soft kind Wench. But to say Truth, I have a farther Design in my Visit now. Thou know’st how I stand past hope of Grace, excommunicated the Kindness of my Uncle.
Dres. True.
Wild. My leud Debauches, and being o’th’ wrong Party, as he calls it, is now become an irreconcilable Quarrel, so that I having many and hopeful Intrigues now depending, especially those of my charming Widow, and my City-Heiress, which can by no means be carried on without that damn’d necessary call’d ready Mony; I have stretcht my Credit, as all young Heirs do, till ‘tis quite broke. New Liveries, Coaches, and Clothes must be had, they must, my Friend.
Dres. Why do’st thou not in this Extremity clap up a Match with my Lady Galliard? or this young Heiress you speak of?
Wild. But Marriage, Frank, is such a Bugbear! And this old Uncle of mine may one day be gathered together, and sleep with his Fathers, and then I shall have six thousand Pound a Year, and the wide World before me; and who the Devil cou’d relish these Blessings with the clog of a Wife behind him?—But till then, Money must be had, I say.