Sir Char.—Not bate ye an Ace, Sir. Come, his Majesty’s Health, and Confusion to his Enemies. [They go to force his Mouth open to drink.
Sir Tim. Hold, Sir, hold, if I must drink, I must; but this is very arbitrary, methinks. [Drinks.
Sir Anth. And now, Sir, to the Royal Duke of Albany. Musick, play a Scotch Jig. [Music plays, they drink.
Sir Tim. This is mere Tyranny.
Enter Jervice.
Jer. Sir, there is alighted at the Gate a Person of Quality, as appears by his Train, who give him the Title of a Lord.
Sir Tim. How, a strange Lord! Conduct him up with Ceremony, Jervice— ’.ds so, he’s here!
Enter Wilding in disguise, Dresswell, and Footmen and Pages.
Wild. Sir, by your Reverend Aspect, you shou’d be the renown’d Mester de Hotel.
Sir Tim. Mater de Otell! I have not the Honour to know any of that Name, I am call’d Sir Timothy Treat-all. [Bowing.