ur choice, Cousin; for what Man of Bravery wou'd
not prefer a Rake to a Wit? The one enjoys the Pleasures the other can
only rail at; and that not out of Conscience, but Impotence: for alas!
a Wit has no quarrel to Vice in Perfection, but what the Fox had to the
Grapes; he can't play away his hundred Pound at sight; his Third Day
won't afford it; and therefore he rails at Gamesters; Whores shun him,
as much as Noblemen, and for the same cause, Money; those care not to
sell their Carcases for a Sonnet, nor these to scatter their Guineas, to
be told an old Tale of a Tub, they were so well acquainted with before.

Sir _Morg._ What's that, Sir _Merlin_?

Sir _Mer._ Why, their Praise;--for the Poet's Flattery seldom reaches
the Patron's Vanity; and what's too strong season'd for the rest of the
World, is too weak for their Palates.

Sir _Morg._ Why, look ye, Cousin, you're a shreud Fellow: Whence learn'd
you this Satire? for I'm sure 'tis none of thy own; for I shou'd as soon
suspect thee guilty of good Nature, as Wit.

Sir _Mer._ I scorn it; and therefore I confess I stole the Observation
from a Poet; but the Devil pick his Bones for diverting me from the
noble Theme of Rakehells.

Sir _Morg._ Noble Theme, Sir _Merlin_! look ye, d'ye see: Don't mistake
me, I think 'tis a very scurvy one; and I wou'd not have your Father
know that you set up for such a Reprobate; for Sir _Rowland_ would
certainly disinherit thee.

Sir _Mer._ O, keep your musty Morals to your self, good Country Couz;
they'll do you service to your _Welch_ Criminals, for stealing an Hen,
or breaking up a Wenches Inclosure, or so, Sir _Morgan_; but for me,
I despise 'em: I have not been admitted into the Family of the
_Rakehellorums_ for this, Sir: Let my Father drink old _Adam_, read the
_Pilgrim's Progress_, _The Country Justice's Calling_, or for a Regale,
drink the dull Manufacture of Malt and Water; I defy him; he can't cut
off the Entail of what is settled on me: and for the rest, I'l trust
Dame _Fortune_; and pray to the Three Fatal Sisters to cut his rotten
Thred in two, before he thinks of any such Wickedness.

Enter Sir _Rowland_ in a great Rage.

Sir _Row._ Will you so, Sir? Why, how now, Sirrah! get you out of my
House, Rogue; get out of my Doors, Rascal.
[Beats him.

Enter Lady _Blunder_.

L. _Blun._ Upon my Honour now, Brother, what's the matter? Whence this
ungenerous Disturbance?

Sir _Row._ What's the matter! the distu