Sir Tim. He has deserv’d it, Madam: First, for lampooning the Reverend City with its noble Government, with the Right Honourable Gown-men; libelling some for Feasting, and some for Fasting, some for Cuckolds, and some for Cuckold-makers; charging us with all the seven deadly Sins, the Sins of our Fore-fathers, adding seven score more to the number; the Sins of Forty-One reviv’d again in Eighty-One, with Additions and Amendments; for which, though the Writings were drawn, by which I made him my whole Executor, I will disinherit him. Secondly, Madam, he deserves hanging for seducing, and most feloniously bearing away a young City-Heiress.
Dia. Undone, undone! Oh, with what Face can I return again! What Man of Wealth or Reputation, now Will think me worth the owning! [Feigns to weep.
Sir Tim. Yes, yes, Madam, there are honest, discreet, religious, and true Protestant Knights in the City, that wou’d be proud to dignify and distinguish so worthy a Gentlewoman. [Bowing and smiling.
Bet. Look to your hits, and take fortune by the forelock, Madam. [Aside. —Alas, Madam, no Knight, and poor too!
Sir Tim. As a Tory Poet.
Bet. Well, Madam, take Comfort; if the worst come to the worst, you have Estate enough for both.
Dia. Ay, Betty, were he but honest, Betty.
[Weeping.
Sir Tim. Honest! I think he will not steal; but for his Body, the Lord have mercy upon’t, for he has none.
Dia. ‘Tis evident, I am betray’d, abus’d;
H’as lookt and sigh’d, and talkt away my Heart;
H’as sworn, and vow’d, and flatter’d me to ruin.
[Weeping.
Sir Tim. A small fault with him; he has flatter’d and sworn me out of many a fair Thousand: why, he has no more Conscience than a Politician, nor no more Truth than a Narrative (under the Rose).