Man. Your Lady Mother has sent you a [Caudle], Sir.
Sir Morg. Good Mrs. Manage, remember my kind Love to my Lady Mother, and tell her, I thank her for her Posset, but never eat in a Morning after hard drinking over night.
Man. Ah, Sir, but now you’re marry’d to a fine Lady, you ought to make much of your self.
Sir Morg. Good Madam, as little of your Matrimony as of your Caudle; my Stomach is plaguy squeamish, and a hair of the old Dog’s worth both of ’em. Oh! sick! sick!
Enter Sir Merlin, singing a Song in praise of a Rake-hell’s Life.
A SONG.
The Town-Rake; written by [Mr. Motteux].
I.
What Life can compare with the jolly Town-Rake’s,
When in Youth his full Swing of all Pleasure he takes?
At Noon, he gets up, for a Whet, and to dine,