Enter Sir Timothy.
Sir Tim. Lord, Lord, how ye look now, as if you had committed no Misdemeanour: Alas, good Innocent, what canst thou say for thy self, thou Renegado thou, for being false to my Bosom, say?
Flaunt. False to your Bosom! You silly impudent Sot you—who dares accuse me?
Sir Tim. E’en your trusty and well-beloved Friend, Mrs. Driver the Baud.
Flaunt. She! She’s an impudent confounded Lyar—and because she wou’d have your worshipful Custom—scandaliz’d me, to breed a difference between us.
Sir Tim. Ay, if you could make me believe that indeed, when she knew
Me not, nor ever saw me all the Days of her Life before.
Flaunt. I know that, Simpleton; but when I went to enquire for you by your Name, and told her my Bus’ness, our Amours are not kept so secret, nor was she so dull, as not to understand how matters went between us.
Sir Tim. Now though I know this to be a damn’d Lye, yet the Devil has assisted her to make it look so like Truth, that I cannot in Honour but forgive her.
Flaunt. Forgive me!—Who shall forgive you your debauch’d Whoring and Drinking?—marry, ye had need so, you are such a Ruffler, at least if y’are every where as you are at home with me—No, Sirrah, I’ll never bed with you more; here I live sneaking without a Coach, or any thing to appear withal; when even those that were scandalous two Ages ago, can be seen in Hide-Park in their fine Chariots, as if they had purchas’d it with a Maidenhead; whilst I, who keep myself intirely for you, can get nothing but the Fragments of your Debauches—I’ll be damn’d before I’ll endure it.
Sir Tim. Just as the Baud said; yet I am mollify’d—nay, dear Betty, forgive me, and I’ll be very good for the future.