Beau. Sir Jolly! why, on my conscience, he thinks it as much his undoubted right to be pimp-mastergeneral to London and Middlesex, as the estate he possesses is: by my consent his worship should e'en have a patent for it.
Cour. He is certainly the fittest for the employment in Christendom; he knows more families by their names and titles than all the bell-men within and without the walls.
Beau. Nay, he keeps a catalogue of the choicest beauties about town, illustrated with a particular account of their age, shape, proportion, colour of hair and eyes, degrees of complexion, gunpowder spots and moles.
Cour. I wish the old pander were bound to satisfy my experience, what marks of good-nature my Sylvia has about her.
Enter Sir Jolly Jumble.
Sir Jol. My captains! my sons of Mars and imps of Venus! well encountered; what, shall we have a sparkling bottle or two, and use Fortune like a jade? Beaugard, you are a rogue, you are a dog, I hate you; get you gone, go.
Beau. But, Sir Jolly, what news from paradise Sir Jolly? Is there any hopes I shall come there to-night?
Sir Jol. May be there is, may be there is not; I say let us have a bottle, and I will say nothing else without a bottle: after a glass or two my heart may open.
Cour. Why, then we will have a bottle, Sir Jolly.
Sir Jol. Will? we'll have dozens, and drink till we are wise, and speak well of nobody; till we are lewder than midnight whores, and out-rail disbanded officers.