Sir Feeb. So, that young Gentleman has nettled him, stung him to the quick: I hope he’ll chain her up—the Gad-Bee’s in his Quonundrum—in Charity I’ll relieve him—Come, my Lady Fulbank, the Night grows old upon our hands; to dancing, to jiggiting—Come, shall I lead your Ladyship?
L. Ful. No, Sir, you see I am better provided— [Takes Gayman’s hand.
Sir Cau. Ay, no doubt on’t, a Pox on him for a young handsome Dog.
[They dance all.
Sir Feeb. Very well, very well, now the Posset; and then—ods bobs, and then—
Dia. And then we’ll have t’other Dance.
Sir Feeb. Away, Girls, away, and steal the Bride to Bed; they have a deal to do upon their Wedding-nights; and what with the tedious Ceremonies of dressing and undressing, the smutty Lectures of the Women, by way of Instruction, and the little Stratagems of the young Wenches —odds bobs, a Man’s cozen’d of half his Night: Come, Gentlemen, one Bottle, and then—we’ll toss the Stocking.
[Exeunt all but L. Ful. Bred, who are talking, and Gayman.
L. Ful. But dost thou think he’ll come?
Bred. I do believe so, Madam—