Gay. Why, I hope a very honest Friend of mine, Harry Bellmour.
Bel. No, Sir, you are mistaken in your Man.
Gay. It may be so.
Bel. I am, d’ye see, Charles, this very individual, numerical young Mr.—what ye call ‘um Fainwou’d, just come from St. Omers into England—to my Uncle the Alderman. I am, Charles, this very Man.
Gay. I know you are, and will swear’t upon occasion.
Bel. This lucky Thought has almost calm’d my mind. And if I don’t fit you, my dear Uncle, May I never lie with my Aunt.
Gay. Ah, Rogue—but prithee what care have you taken about your Pardon? ‘twere good you should secure that.
Bel. There’s the Devil, Charles,—had I but that—but I have had a very good Friend at work, a thousand Guyneys, that seldom fails; but yet in vain, I being the first Transgressor since the Act against Duelling. But I impatient to see this dear delight of my Soul, and hearing from none of you this six weeks, came from Brussels in this disguise—for the Hague I have not seen, though hang’d there—but come—let’s away, and compleat me a right St. Omer’s Spark, that I may present my self as soon as they come from Church.
[Exeunt.