Sir Cred. Alas, poor Rat, how does he live then?
Lod. Hang him, the Ladies keep him; ’tis a good handsome Fellow, and has a pretty Town-Wit.
Sir Cred. He a Wit! what, I’ll warrant he writes Lampoons, rails at Plays, curses all Poetry but his own, and mimicks the Players—ha.
Lod. Some such common Notions he has that deceives the ignorant Rabble, amongst whom he passes for a very smart Fellow,—’life, he’s here.
Enter Leander.
Sir Cred. Why, what shall I do, he will not affront me before Company? hah!
Lod. Not in our House, Sir,—bear up and take no notice on’t. Lod. whispers Lean.
Sir Cred. No notice, quoth he? why, my very Fears will betray me.
Lean. Let me alone—Lodwick, I met just now with an Italian Merchant, who has made me such a Present!
Lod. What is’t prithee?