Ran. S’life, not for the world—Major, I bar Love-making within my Territories, ’tis inconsistent with the Punch-Bowl, if you’l drink, do, if not, be gone.
Tim. Nay, Gad’s Zooks, if you enter me at the Punch-Bowl you enter me in Politicks—well, ’tis the best Drink in Christendom for a Statesman. They drink about, the Bagpipe playing.
Ran. Come, now you shall see what my High-land Valet can do. [A Scots Dance.]
Dull. So—I see, let the World go which way it will, Widow, you are resolv’d for mirth,—but come—to the conversation of the Times.
Ran. The Times! why, what a Devil ails the Times? I see nothing in the Times but a Company of Coxcombs that fear without a Cause.
Tim. But if these Fears were laid, and Bacon were hanged, I look upon Virginia to be the happiest part of the World, gads zoors,—why, there’s England—’tis nothing to’t,—I was in England about six Years ago, and was shewed the Court of Aldermen, some were nodding, some saying nothing, and others very little to purpose; but how could it be otherwise, for they had neither Bowl of Punch, Bottles of Wine or Tobacco before ’em, to put Life and Soul into ’em as we have here: then for the young Gentlemen—their farthest Travels is to France or Italy, they never come hither.
Dull. The more’s the pity, by my troth. Drinks.
Tim. Where they learn to swear Mor-blew, Mor-dee—
Friend. And tell you how much bigger the Louvre is than Whitehall; buy a suit a-la-mode, get a swinging Clap of some French Marquise, spend all their Money, and return just as they went.
Dull. For the old Fellows, their business is Usury, Extortion, and undermining young Heirs.