Young Fash. By this Light, old Coupler a...

Young Fash. By this Light, old Coupler alive still! Why, how now, Matchmaker, art thou here still to plague the World with Matrimony? You old Bawd, how have you the Impudence to be hobbling out of your Grave twenty Years after you are rotten!

Coup. When you begin to rot, Sirrah, you'll go off like a Pippin, one Winter will send you to the Devil. What Mischief brings you home again? Ha! You young lascivious Rogue, you: Let me put my Hand into your Bosom, Sirrah.

Young Fash. Stand off, old Sodom.

Coup. Nay, pr'ythee now don't be so coy.

Young Fash. Keep your Hands to yourself, you old Dog you, or I'll wring your Nose off.

Coup. Hast thou then been a Year in Italy, and brought home a Fool at last? By my Conscience, the young Fellows of this Age profit no more by their going abroad, than they do by their going to Church. Sirrah, Sirrah, if you are not hang'd before you come to my Years, you'll know a Cock from a Hen. But come, I'm still a Friend to thy Person, tho' I have a Contempt of thy Understanding; and therefore I would willingly know thy Condition, that I may see whether thou standest in need of my Assistance; for Widows swarm, my Boy, the Town's infested with 'em.

Young Fash. I stand in need of any body's Assistance, that will help me to cut my elder Brother's Throat, without the Risque of being hang'd for him.

Coup. I'gad, Sirrah, I cou'd help thee to do him almost as good a turn, without the danger of being burnt in the Hand for't.

Young Fash. Say'st thou so, old Satan? Shew me but that, and my Soul is thine.

Coup. Pox o'thy Soul! give me thy warm Body, Sirrah; I shall have a substantial Title to't when I tell thee my Project.

Young Fash. Out with it then, dear Dad, and take possession as soon as thou wilt.

Coup. Sayest thou so, my Hephestion? Why, then, thus lies the Scene: but hold; who's that? If we are heard we are undone.

Young Fash. What have you forgot Lory?

Coup. Who, trusty Lory, is it thee?

Lory. At your Service, Sir.

Coup. Give me thy Hand, old Boy; I'gad I did not know thee again; but I remember thy Honesty, tho' I did not thy Face; I think thou hadst like to have been hang'd once or twice for thy Master.

Lory. Sir, I was very near once having that Honour.

Coup. Well, live and hope; don't be discourag'd; eat with him, and drink with him, and do what he bids thee, and it may be thy Reward at last, as well as another's. To Young Fash.] Well, Sir, you must know I have done you the Kindness to make up a Match for your Brother.

Young Fash. I am very much beholden to you, truly.

Coup. You may be, Sirrah, before the Wedding-day yet; the Lady is a great Heiress; fifteen hundred Pound a year, and a great Bag of Money; the Match is concluded, the Writings are drawn, and the Pipkin's to be crack'd in a Fortnight—Now you must know, Stripling (with Respect to your Mother), your Brother's the Son of a Whore.

Young Fash. Good.

Coup. He has given me a Bond of a Thousand Pounds for helping him to this Fortune, and has promis'd me as much more in ready Money upon the Day of Marriage; which, I understand by a Friend, he ne'er designs to pay me; if therefore you will be a generous young Dog, and secure me five thousand Pounds, I'll be a covetous old Rogue, and help you to the Lady.

Young Fash. I'gad, if thou can'st bring this about, I'll have thy Statue cast in Brass. But don't you doat, you old Pandar you, when you talk at this rate?

Coup. That your youthful Parts shall judge of: This plump Partridge, that I tell you of, lives in the Country, fifty Miles off, with her honoured Parents, in a lonely old House which nobody comes near; she never goes abroad, nor sees Company at home: To prevent all Misfortunes, she has her Breeding within Doors, the Parson of the Parish teaches her to play on the Bass-Viol, the Clerk to sing, her Nurse to dress, and her Father to dance: In short, nobody can give you admittance there but I; nor can I do it any other way, than by making you pass for your Brother.

Young Fash. And how the Devil wilt thou do that?

Coup. Without the Devil's Aid, I warrant thee. Thy Brother's Face not one of the Family ever saw; the whole Business has been manag'd by me, and all the Letters go thro' my Hands: The last that was writ to Sir Tunbelly Clumsey (for that's the old Gentleman's Name) was to tell him, his Lordship would be down in a Fortnight to consummate. Now you shall go away immediately; pretend you writ that letter only to have the romantick Pleasure of surprizing your Mistress; fall desperately in Love, as soon as you see her; make that your Plea for marrying her immediately; and when the fatigue of the Wedding-night's over, you shall send me a swinging Purse of Gold, you Dog you.

Young Fash. I'gad, old Dad, I'll put my Hand in thy Bosom now——

Coup. Ah, you young hot lusty Thief, let me muzzle you——

[Kissing.]

Sirrah, let me muzzle you.

Young Fash. 'Psha, the old Letcher——

[Aside.]

Coup. Well; I'll warrant thou hast not a Farthing of Money in thy Pocket now; no, one may see it in thy Face——

Young Fash. Not a Sous, by Jupiter.

Coup. Must I advance then?—Well, Sirrah, be at my Lodgings in half an Hour, and I'll see what may be done; we'll sign and seal, and eat a Pullet, and when I have given thee some farther Instructions, thou shalt hoist Sail and be gone——[Kissing.]——T'other Buss, and so adieu.

Young Fash. Um, 'psha.

Coup. Ah; you young warm Dog, you; what a delicious Night will the Bride have on't!

[Exit Coupler.]

Young Fash. So, Lory; Providence, thou seest, at last takes care of Men of Merit: We are in a fair way to be great People.

Lo. Ay, Sir, if the Devil don't step between the Cup and the Lip, as he uses to do.

Young Fash. Why, faith, he has play'd me many a damn'd Trick to spoil my Fortune, and, I'gad, I'm almost afraid he's at work about it again now; but if I should tell thee how, thou'dst wonder at me.

Lo. Indeed, Sir, I shou'd not.

Young Fash. How dost know?

Lo. Because, Sir, I have wonder'd at you so often, I can wonder at you no more.

Young Fash. No! what wouldst thou say if a Qualm of Conscience should spoil my Design?

Lo. I wou'd eat my Words, and wonder more than ever.

Young Fash. Why, faith, Lory, tho' I am a young Rake-hell, and have play'd many a Roguish Trick; this is so full grown a Cheat, I find I must take pains to come up to't; I have Scruples——

Lo. They are strong Symptoms of Death; if you find they increase, pray, Sir, make your Will.

Young Fash. No, my Conscience shan't starve me, neither. But thus far I'll hearken to it; before I execute this Project, I'll try my Brother to the bottom, I'll speak to him with the Temper of a Philosopher; my Reasons (tho' they press him home) shall yet be cloth'd with so much Modesty, not one of all the Truths they urge, shall be so naked to offend his Sight: if he has yet so much Humanity about him, as to assist me (tho' with a moderate Aid) I'll drop my Project at his Feet, and shew him how I can do for him, much more than what I ask he'd do for me. This one conclusive Trial of him I resolve to make—

Succeed or no, still Victory's my Lot;

If I subdue his Heart, 'tis well; if not,

I shall subdue my Conscience to my Plot.