th ready Money! In
fine, dear Rogues, all things are sacrific'd to its Power; and no Mortal
conceives the Joy of Argent Content. 'Tis this powerful God that makes
me submit to the Devil, Matrimony; and then thou art assur'd of me, my
stout Lads of brisk Debauch.

_Sham_. And is it possible you can be ty'd up to a Wife? Whilst here in
_London_, and free, you have the whole World to range in, and like a
wanton Heifer, eat of every Pasture.

Sir _Tim_. Why, dost think I'll be confin'd to my own dull Enclosure?
No, I had rather feed coarsely upon the boundless Common; perhaps two or
three days I may be in love, and remain constant, but that's the most.

_Sharp_. And in three Weeks, should you wed a _Cynthia_, you'd be a
Monster.

Sir _Tim_. What, thou meanest a Cuckold, I warrant. God help thee! But a
Monster is only so from its Rarity, and a Cuckold is no such strange
thing in our Age.

_Enter_ Bellmour _and_ Friendlove.

But who comes here? _Bellmour!_ Ah, my little dear Rogue! how dost thou?
--_Ned Friendlove_ too! Dear Lad, how dost thou too? Why, welcome to
Town, i'faith, and I'm glad to see you both.

_Friend_. Sir _Timothy Tawdrey!_--

Sir _Tim_. The same, by Fortune, dear _Ned_: And how, and how, Man, how
go Matters?

_Friend_. Between who, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Why, any Body, Man; but, by Fortune, I'm overjoy'd to meet
thee: But where dost think I was going?

_Friend_. Is't possible one shou'd divine?

Sir _Tim_. Is't possible you shou'd not, and meet me so near your
Sister's Lodgings? Faith, I was coming to pay my Respects and Services,
and the rest--Thou know'st my meaning--The old Business of the
Silver-World, _Ned_; by Fortune, it's a mad Age we live in, _Ned_; and
here be so many--wicked Rogues, about this damn'd leud Town, that,
'faith, I am fain to speak in the vulgar modish Style, in my own
Defence, and railly Matrimony and the rest.

_Friend_. Matrimony!--I hope you are so exactly refin'd a Man of the
Town, that you will not offer once to think of so dull a thing: let that
alone for such cold Complexions as _Bellmour_ here, and I, that have not
attain'd to that most excellent faculty of Keeping yet, as you, Sir
_Timothy_, have done; much to your Glory, I assure you.

Sir _Tim_. Who, I, Sir? You do me much Honour: I must confess I do not
find the softer Sex cruel; I am received as well as another Man of
my Parts.

_Friend_. Of your Money you mean, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Why, 'faith, _Ned_, th