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, thou art i’th’ right; I love to buy my Pleasure:  for, by Fortune, there’s as much pleasure in Vanity and Variety, as any Sins I know; What think’st thou, Ned?

Friend.  I am not of your Mind, I love to love upon the square; and that I may be sure not to be cheated with false Ware, I present ’em nothing but my Heart.

Sir Tim.  Yes, and have the Consolation of seeing your frugal huswifery Miss in the Pit, at a Play, in a long Scarf and Night-gown, for want of Points, and Garniture.

Friend.  If she be clean, and pretty, and drest in Love, I can excuse the rest, and so will she.

Sir Tim.  I vow to Fortune, Ned, thou must come to London, and be a little manag’d:  ’slife, Man, shouldst thou talk so aloud in good Company, thou wouldst be counted a strange Fellow.  Pretty—­and drest with Love—­a fine Figure, by Fortune:  No, Ned, the painted Chariot gives a Lustre to every ordinary Face, and makes a Woman look like Quality; Ay, so like, by Fortune, that you shall not know one from t’other, till some scandalous, out-of-favour’d laid-aside Fellow of the Town, cry—­Damn her for a Bitch—­how scornfully the Whore regards me—­She has forgot since Jack—­such a one, and I, club’d for the keeping of her, when both our Stocks well manag’d wou’d not amount to above seven Shillings six Pence a week; besides now and then a Treat of a Breast of Mutton from the next Cook’s.—­Then the other laughs, and crys—­Ay, rot her—­and tells his Story too, and concludes with, Who manages the Jilt now; Why, faith, some dismal Coxcomb or other, you may be sure, replies the first.  But, Ned, these are Rogues, and Rascals, that value no Man’s Reputation, because they despise their own.  But faith, I have laid aside all these Vanities, now I have thought of Matrimony; but I desire my Reformation may be a Secret, because, as you know, for a Man of my Address, and the rest—­’tis not altogether so Jantee.

Friend.  Sir, I assure you, it shall be so great a Secret for me, that I will never ask you who the happy Woman is, that’s chosen for this great Work of your Conversion.

Sir Tim.  Ask me—­No, you need not, because you know already.

Friend.  Who, I?  I protest, Sir Timothy—­

Sir Tim.  No Swearing, dear Ned, for ’tis not such a Secret, but I will trust my Intimates:  these are my Friends, Ned; pray know them—­This Mr. Sham, and this—­by Fortune, a very honest Fellow [Bows to ’em] Mr. Sharp, and may be trusted with a Bus’ness that concerns you as well as me.

Friend.  Me!  What do you mean, Sir Timothy?