Sir Mer. Lord, Aunt, I only go to the Club sometimes, to improve my self in the Art of Living, and the Accomplishments of a fine Gentleman.
Sir Row. A fine Gentleman, Sot, a fine Coxcomb! Beats him.
Sir Morg. Hold, hold, good Uncle; my Cousin has been only drawn in, a little or so, d’ye see, being Heir to a good Estate; and that’s what his Club wants, to pay off old Tavern Scores, and buy Utensils for Whores in Fashion.
Sir Row. My Estate sold to pay Tavern-Scores, and keep nasty Whores!
L. Blun. Whores! ay, filthy Creatures; do they deal in Whores? Pray, Cousin, what’s a Rake-hell?
Sir Row. A Rake-hell is a Man that defies Law and good Manners, nay, and good Sense too; hates both Morality and Religion, and that not for any Reason (for he never thinks) but merely because he don’t understand ’em: He’s the Whore’s Protection and Punishment, the Baud’s Tool, the Sharper’s Bubble, the Vintner’s Property, the Drawer’s Terror, the Glasier’s Benefactor; in short, a roaring, thoughtless, heedless, ridiculous, universal Coxcomb.
Sir Mer. O Lord, Aunt, no more like him than an Attorney’s like an honest Man. Why, a Rake-hell is—
Sir Row. What, Sirrah! what, you Rebel? Strikes him.
L. Blun. Nay, good Brother, permit my Nephew to tell us his Notion.
Sir Mer. Why, Aunt, I say a Rake-hell is your only Man of Bravery; he slights all the Force of Fortune, and sticks at no Hazard—plays away his hundred Pounds at sight, pays a Lady’s Bill at sight, drinks his Bottle without equivocation, and fights his Man without any Provocation.