Sir Morg. A Plague of your what d’ye call ums.
Sir Mer. Rakehells you would say, Cousin, an honourable Appellation for Men of Bravery.
Sir Morg. Ay, ay, your Rakehells—I was never so muddled with Treason, Tierce Claret, Oaths and Dice, all the Days of my Life—Was I in case to do Family duty? S’life, you drank down all my Love, all my Prudence too; Gad forgive me for it.
Sir Mer. Why, how the Devil cam’st thou to bear thy Liquor so ill? Ods my Life, you drunk like a Frenchman new come to the University.
Sir Morg. Pox, I can bear their drinking as well as any Man; but your London way of Bousing and Politics does not agree with my Constitution. Look ye, Cousin, [set quietly to’t, and I’ll stand my ground; but to have screaming Whores, noisy] Bullies, rattling Dice, swearing and cursing Gamesters, Couz. turns the Head of a Country-Drinker, more than the Wine.
Sir Mer. Oh! Use, Cousin, will make an able Man.
Sir Morg. Use, Cousin! Use me no Uses; for if ever you catch me at your damn’d Clubs again, I’ll give you my Mother for a Maid: Why, you talk downright Treason.
Sir Mer. Treason, ay—
Sir Morg. Ah Cousin, why, we talk’d enough to—hang us all.
Sir Mer. My honest Country-Couz. when wilt thou understand the Guelphs, and the Gibelins, and learn to talk Treason o’ this side the Law? bilk a Whore without remorse; break Windows, and not pay for ’em; drink your Bottle without asking Questions; kill your Man without letting him draw; play away your Money without fear of your Spouse, and stop her Mouth by undermining her Nose?