_Sure._ You’re very confident of your Power, I perceive; but if you chance to find yourself mistaken, say your Opinion and your Affectation were misapply’d, and not that I was cruel. [Ex. _Surelove_.
_Haz._ Whate’er denials dwell upon your Tongue, your Eyes assure me that your Heart is tender. [Goes out.
Enter the Bagpiper, playing before a great Bowl of Punch, carry’d between two Negroes, a Highlander dancing after it; the Widow _Ranter_ led by _Timorous_; _Chrisante_ by _Dullman_; Mrs. _Flirt_ and _Friendly_, all dancing after it; they place it on the Table.
_Dull._ This is like the noble Widow all over, i’faith.
_Tim._ Ay, ay, the Widow’s Health in a full Ladle, Major. [Drinks. --But a Pox on’t, what made that young Fellow here, that affronted us yesterday, Major? [While they drink about.
_Dull._ Some damned Sharper that would lay his Knife aboard your Widow, Cornet.
_Tim._ Zoors, if I thought so, I’d arrest him for Salt and Battery, lay him in Prison for a swinging Fine, and take no Bail.
_Dull._ Nay, had it not been before my Mistress here, Mrs. _Chrisante_, I had swinged him for his Yesterday’s Affront;--ah, my sweet Mistress _Chrisante_--if you did but know what a power you have over me--
_Chris._ Oh, you’re a great Courtier, Major.
_Dull._ Would I were any thing for your sake, Madam.
_Ran._ Thou art anything, but what thou shouldst be; prithee, Major, leave off being an old Buffoon, that is, a Lover turn’d ridiculous by Age, consider thy self a mere rouling Tun of _Nantz_,--a walking Chimney, ever smoaking with nasty Mundungus, and then thou hast a Countenance like an old worm-eaten Cheese.
_Dull._ Well, Widow, you will joke, ha, ha, ha--
_Tim._ Gad’ Zoors, she’s pure company, ha, ha--
_Dull._ No matter for my Countenance,--Col. _Downright_ likes my Estate, and is resolved to have it a match.
_Friend._ Dear Widow, take off your damned Major, for if he speak another word to _Chrisante_, I shall be put past all my patience, and fall foul upon him.
_Ran._ S’life, not for the world--Major, I bar Love-making within my Territories, ‘tis inconsistent with the Punch-Bowl, if you’l drink, do, if not, be gone.
_Tim._ Nay, Gad’s Zooks, if you enter me at the Punch-Bowl you enter me in Politicks--well, ‘tis the best Drink in Christendom for a Statesman. [They drink about, the Bagpipe playing.