Gay.  Pray Heaven she have not found my Circumstances!  But if she have, Confidence must assist me—­ [Aside.  —­And, Madam, you’re too gay for me to inquire Whether you are that Julia which I left you?

L. Ful.  Oh, doubtless, Sir—­

Gay.  But why the Devil do I ask—­Yes, you are still the same; one of those hoiting Ladies, that love nothing like Fool and Fiddle; Crouds of Fops; had rather be publickly, though dully, flatter’d, than privately ador’d:  you love to pass for the Wit of the Company, by talking all and loud.

L. Ful.  Rail on, till you have made me think my Virtue at so low Ebb, it should submit to you.

Gay.  What—­I’m not discreet enough;
I’ll babble all in my next high Debauch,
Boast of your Favours, and describe your Charms
To every wishing Fool.

L. Ful.  Or make most filthy Verses of me—­
Under the name of Cloris—­you Philander,
Who in leud Rhimes confess the dear Appointment;
What Hour, and where, how silent was the Night,
How full of Love your Eyes, and wishing mine. 
Faith, no; if you can afford me a Lease of your Love,
Till the old Gentleman my Husband depart this wicked World,
I’m for the Bargain.

Sir Cau.  Hum—­what’s here, a young Spark at my Wife?
                                           [Goes about ’em.

Gay.  Unreasonable Julia, is that all,
My Love, my Sufferings, and my Vows must hope? 
Set me an Age—­say when you will be kind,
And I will languish out in starving Wish: 
But thus to gape for Legacies of Love,
Till Youth be past Enjoyment,
The Devil I will as soon—­farewel.
                            [Offers to go.

L. Ful.  Stay, I conjure you stay.

Gay.  And lose my Assignation with my Devil. [Aside.

Sir Cau.  ’Tis so, ay, ay, ’tis so—­and wise Men will perceive it; ’tis here—­here in my forehead, it more than buds; it sprouts, it flourishes.

Sir Feeb.  So, that young Gentleman has nettled him, stung him to the quick:  I hope he’ll chain her up—­the Gad-Bee’s in his Quonundrum—­in Charity I’ll relieve him—­Come, my Lady Fulbank, the Night grows old upon our hands; to dancing, to jiggiting—­Come, shall I lead your Ladyship?

L. Ful.  No, Sir, you see I am better provided—­
                                 [Takes Gayman’s hand.

Sir Cau.  Ay, no doubt on’t, a Pox on him for a young handsome Dog.

[They dance all.

Sir Feeb.  Very well, very well, now the Posset; and then—­ods bobs, and then—­

Dia.  And then we’ll have t’other Dance.

Sir Feeb.  Away, Girls, away, and steal the Bride to Bed; they have a deal to do upon their Wedding-nights; and what with the tedious Ceremonies of dressing and undressing, the smutty Lectures of the Women, by way of Instruction, and the little Stratagems of the young Wenches —­odds bobs, a Man’s cozen’d of half his Night:  Come, Gentlemen, one Bottle, and then—­we’ll toss the Stocking.