Dap. No, a pox! I have no wit to-night. I am as barren and hide-bound as one of your damned scribbling poets, who are sots in company for all their wit; as a miser is poor for all his money. How do you like the thought?
Vin. Drink, drink!
Dap. Well, I can drink this, because I shall be reprieved presently.
Vin. Who will be so civil to us?
Dap. Sir Simon Addleplot:—I have bespoke him a supper here, for he treats to-night a new rich mistress.
Ran. That spark, who has his fruitless designs upon the bed-ridden rich widow, down to the suckling heiress in her pissing-clout. He was once the sport, but now the public grievance, of all the fortunes in town; for he watches them like a younger brother that is afraid to be mumped of his snip,[29] and they cannot steal a marriage, nor stay their stomachs, but he must know it.
Dap. He has now pitched his nets for Gripe's daughter, the rich scrivener, and serves him as a clerk to get admission to her; which the watchful fop her father denies to all others.
Ran. I thought you had been nibbling at her once, under pretence of love to her aunt.
Dap. I confess I have the same design yet, and Addleplot is but my agent, whilst he thinks me his. He brings me letters constantly from her, and carries mine back.
Vin. Still betraying your best friends!