Sir Morg. Why, look ye, Cousin, you’re a shreud Fellow: Whence learn’d you this Satire? for I’m sure ’tis none of thy own; for I shou’d as soon suspect thee guilty of good Nature, as Wit.
Sir Mer. I scorn it; and therefore I confess I stole the Observation from a Poet; but the Devil pick his Bones for diverting me from the noble Theme of Rakehells.
Sir Morg. Noble Theme, Sir Merlin! look ye, d’ye see: Don’t mistake me, I think ’tis a very scurvy one; and I wou’d not have your Father know that you set up for such a Reprobate; for Sir Rowland would certainly disinherit thee.
Sir Mer. O, keep your musty Morals to your self, good Country Couz; they’ll do you service to your Welch Criminals, for stealing an Hen, or breaking up a Wenches Inclosure, or so, Sir Morgan; but for me, I despise ’em: I have not been admitted into the Family of the Rakehellorums for this, Sir: Let my Father drink old [Adam], read the Pilgrim’s Progress, [The Country Justice’s Calling], or for a Regale, drink the dull Manufacture of Malt and Water; I defy him; he can’t cut off the Entail of what is settled on me: and for the rest, I’l trust Dame Fortune; and pray to the Three Fatal Sisters to cut his rotten Thred in two, before he thinks of any such Wickedness.
Enter Sir Rowland in a great Rage.
Sir Row. Will you so, Sir? Why, how now, Sirrah! get you out of my House, Rogue; get out of my Doors, Rascal. Beats him.
Enter Lady Blunder.
L. Blun. Upon my Honour now, Brother, what’s the matter? Whence this ungenerous Disturbance?
Sir Row. What’s the matter! the disturbance! Why, Sister, this Rogue here—this unintelligible graceless Rascal here, will needs set up for a Rakehell, when there’s scarce such a thing in the Nation, above an Ale-draper’s Son; and chuses to be aukardly out of fashion, merely for the sake of Tricking and Poverty; and keeps company with the senseless, profane, lazy, idle, noisy, groveling Rascals, purely for the sake of spending his Estate like a notorious Blockhead: But I’ll take care he shall not have what I can dispose of—You’ll be a Rake-hell, will you?
L. Blun. How, Cousin! Sure you’ll not be such a filthy beastly thing, will you?