Gay. Hah, this to me, dear Harry?
Bel. Whither is Honour, Truth and Friendship fled?
Gay. Why, there ne’er was such a Virtue, ’.is all a Poet’s Dream.
Bel. I thank you, Sir.
Gay. I’m sorry for’t, or that ever I did any thing that could deserve it: put up your Sword—an honest man wou’d say how he’s offended, before he rashly draws.
Bel. Are not you going to be married, Sir?
Gay. No, Sir, as long as any Man in London is so, that has but a handsom Wife, Sir.
Bel. Are you not in love, Sir?
Gay. Most damnably,—and wou’d fain lie with the dear jilting Gipsy.
Bel. Hah, who would you lie with, Sir?