Sir Morg. Come, come, look you, Cousin, one word of Advice now I’m sober; what the Devil should provoke thee and me to put ourselves on our twelve Godfathers for a Frolick? We who have Estates. I shou’d be loth to leave the World with a scurvy Song, composed by [the Poet Sternhold].
Enter at the Door Sir Rowland, hearkning.
Or why, d’ye see, shou’d I expose my Noddle to the [Billmen in Flannel], and lie in the Roundhouse, when I may go to bed in a whole skin with my Lady Wife?
Sir Mer. Gad, Sir Morgan, thou hast sometimes pretty smart satirical Touches with thee; use but [Will’s Coffee-house] a little, and with thy Estate, and that Talent, thou mayst set up for a Wit.
Sir Morg. Mercy upon me, Sir Merlin, thou art stark mad: What, I a Wit! I had rather be one of your Rakehells: for, look ye, a Man may swear and stare, or so; break Windows, and Drawers Heads, or so; unrig a needy Whore, and yet keep one’s Estate: but should I turn Wit, ’twere impossible; for a Wit with an Estate is like a Prisoner among the Cannibals.
Sir Mer. How so, good Sir Morgan?
Sir Morg. Why, the needy Rogues only feed him with Praise, to fatten him for their Palates, and then devour him.
Sir Mer. I applaud your choice, Cousin; for what Man of Bravery wou’d not prefer a Rake to a Wit? The one enjoys the Pleasures the other can only rail at; and that not out of Conscience, but Impotence: for alas! a Wit has no quarrel to Vice in Perfection, but what the Fox had to the Grapes; he can’t play away his hundred Pound at sight; [his Third Day] won’t afford it; and therefore he rails at Gamesters; Whores shun him, as much as Noblemen, and for the same cause, Money; those care not to sell their Carcases for a Sonnet, nor these to scatter their Guineas, to be told an old Tale of a Tub, they were so well acquainted with before.
Sir Morg. What’s that, Sir Merlin?
Sir Mer. Why, their Praise;—for the Poet’s Flattery seldom reaches the Patron’s Vanity; and what’s too strong season’d for the rest of the World, is too weak for their Palates.