Cun. I, my friend complains so,
Sir Gregory says flatly, she makes a fool of him,
And these bold circumstances are approv'd:
Favours have been sent by him, yet he ignorant
Whither to carry 'em; they have been understood,
And taken from him, certain, Sir, there is
An unsuspected fellow lies conceal'd,
What, or where e'er he is, these slight neglects
Could not be of a Knight else.
Old K. Well Sir, you have promis'd (if we recover him
Unmarried) to salve all these old bruises?
Cun. I'll do my best, Sir.
Old K. I shall thank you, costly Sir, and kindly too.
Witty. Will you talk away the time here, Sir, and come
behind all your purposes?
Old K. Away good Sir.
Witty. Then stay a little, good Sir, for my advice,
Why, Father are you broke? your wit beggar'd,
Or are you at your wits end? or out of
Love with wit? no trick of wit to surprize
Those designs, but with open Hue and Cry,
For all the world to talk on, this is strange,
You were not wont to slubber a project so.
Old K. Can you help at a pinch now? shew your self
My Son, go too, I leave this to your wit,
Because I'll make a proof on't.
Witty. 'Tis thus then,
I have had late intelligence, they are now
Bucksom as Bacchus Froes, revelling, dancing,
Telling the Musicks numbers with their feet,
Awaiting the meeting of p[re]monish'd friends,
That's questionless, little dreading you,
Now Sir, with a dexterous trick indeed, suddain
And sufficient were well, to enter on um
As something like the abstract of a Masque;
What though few persons? if best for our purpose
That commends the project.
Old K. This takes up time.