Clos. One Sir Charles Merwill—
L. Gal. Sent, and you receiv’d without my Order!
No wonder that he looks so scurvily.
Give him the Trifle back to mend his Humour.
Sir Anth. I thank you, Madam, for that Reprimand. Look in that Glass, Sir, and admire that sneaking Coxcomb’s Countenance of yours: a pox on him, he’s past Grace, lost, gone: not a Souse, not a Groat; good b’ye to you, Sir. Madam, I beg your Pardon; the next time I come a wooing, it shall be for my self, Madam, and I have something that will justify it too; but as for this Fellow, if your Ladyship have e’er a small Page at leisure, I desire he may have Order to kick him down Stairs. A damn’d Rogue, to be civil now, when he shou’d have behav’d himself handsomely! Not an Acre, not a Shilling—buy Sir Softhead. [Going out meets Wild, and returns.] Hah, who have we here, hum, the fine mad Fellow? so, so, he’ll swinge him, I hope; I’ll stay to have the pleasure of seeing it done.
Enter Wilding, brushes by Sir Charles.
Wild. I was sure ‘twas Meriwill’s Coach at Door. [Aside.
Sir Char. Hah, Wilding!
Sir Anth. Ay, now, Sir, here’s one will waken ye, Sir. [To Sir Char.
Wild. How now, Widow, you are always giving Audience to Lovers, I see.
Sir Char. You’re very free, Sir.
Wild. I am always so in the Widow’s Lodgings, Sir.