Bel. Cater-tray—a hundred Guineas—oh, damn the Dice—’tis mine—come, a full Glass—Damnation to my Uncle.
Sir Tim. By Fortune, I’ll do thee reason—give me the Glass, and, Sham, to thee—Confusion to the musty Lord.
Bel. So—now I’m like my self, profanely wicked.
A little room for Life—but such a Life
As Hell it self shall wonder at—I’ll have a care
To do no one good deed in the whole course on’t,
Lest that shou’d save my Soul in spite of Vow-breach.
—I will not die—that Peace my Sins deserve not.
I’ll live and let my Tyrant Uncle see
The sad effects of Perjury, and forc’d Marriage.
—Surely the Pow’rs above envy’d my Bliss;
Marrying Celinda, I had been an Angel,
So truly blest, and good. [Weeps.
Sir Tim. Why, how now, Frank—by Fortune, the Rogue is Maudlin—So, ho, ho, so ho.
Bel. The matter?
Sir Tim. Oh, art awake—What a Devil ail’st thou, Frank?
Bel. A Wench, or any thing—come, let’s drink a round.
Sham. They’re come as wisht for.
Enter Flauntit, Driver, Doll and Jenny mask’d.
Bel. Oh, damn ‘em! What shall I do? Yet it would look like Virtue to avoid ‘em. No, I must venture on—Ladies, y’are welcome.