Volume Iv Part 102 (1/2)

_Thus in _Covent-Garden_ he makes his Campaign, And no Coffee-house haunts, but to settle his Brain.

He laughs at dry Morals, and never does think, Unless 'tis to get the best Wenches and Drink.

He dwells in a Tavern, and lies ev'ry where, And improving his hours, lives an Age in a Tear: For as Life is uncertain, he loves to make haste; And thus he lives longest, because he lives fast: Then a Leap in the dark to the Devil he takes.

What Death can compare with the Jolly Town-Rake's?_

Sir _Mer._ Why, how now, Sir _Morgan_, I see you'll make a Husband of the right Town-Mode: What, married but four Days, and at your separate Apartment already?

Sir _Morg._ A Plague of your what d'ye call ums.

Sir _Mer._ Rakeh.e.l.ls you would say, Cousin, an honourable Appellation for Men of Bravery.

Sir _Morg._ Ay, ay, your Rakeh.e.l.ls--I was never so muddled with Treason, Tierce Claret, Oaths and Dice, all the Days of my Life--Was I in case to do Family duty? S'life, you drank down all my Love, all my Prudence too; Gad forgive me for it.

Sir _Mer._ Why, how the Devil cam'st thou to bear thy Liquor so ill? Ods my Life, you drunk like a _Frenchman_ new come to the University.

Sir _Morg._ Pox, I can bear their drinking as well as any Man; but your _London_ way of Bousing and Politics does not agree with my Const.i.tution. Look ye, Cousin, set quietly to't, and I'll stand my ground; but to have screaming Wh.o.r.es, noisy Bullies, rattling Dice, swearing and cursing Gamesters, Couz. turns the Head of a Country-Drinker, more than the Wine.

Sir _Mer._ Oh! Use, Cousin, will make an able Man.

Sir _Morg._ Use, Cousin! Use me no Uses; for if ever you catch me at your d.a.m.n'd Clubs again, I'll give you my Mother for a Maid: Why, you talk downright Treason.

Sir _Mer._ Treason, ay--

Sir _Morg._ Ah Cousin, why, we talk'd enough to--hang us all.

Sir _Mer._ My honest Country-Couz. when wilt thou understand the _Guelphs_, and the _Gibelins_, and learn to talk Treason o' this side the Law? bilk a Wh.o.r.e without remorse; break Windows, and not pay for 'em; drink your Bottle without asking Questions; kill your Man without letting him draw; play away your Money without fear of your Spouse, and stop her Mouth by undermining her Nose?

Sir _Morg._ Come, come, look you, Cousin, one word of Advice now I'm sober; what the Devil should provoke thee and me to put ourselves on our twelve G.o.dfathers for a Frolick? We who have Estates. I shou'd be loth to leave the World with a scurvy Song, composed by the Poet _Sternhold_.

Enter at the Door Sir _Rowland_, hearkning.

Or why, d'ye see, shou'd I expose my Noddle to the Billmen in Flannel, and lie in the _Roundhouse_, when I may go to bed in a whole skin with my Lady Wife?

Sir _Mer._ Gad, Sir _Morgan_, thou hast sometimes pretty smart satirical Touches with thee; use but _Will's_ Coffee-house a little, and with thy Estate, and that Talent, thou mayst set up for a Wit.

Sir _Morg._ Mercy upon me, Sir _Merlin_, thou art stark mad: What, I a Wit! I had rather be one of your Rakeh.e.l.ls: for, look ye, a Man may swear and stare, or so; break Windows, and Drawers Heads, or so; unrig a needy Wh.o.r.e, and yet keep one's Estate: but should I turn Wit, 'twere impossible; for a Wit with an Estate is like a Prisoner among the Cannibals.

Sir _Mer._ How so, good Sir _Morgan_?

Sir _Morg._ Why, the needy Rogues only feed him with Praise, to fatten him for their Palates, and then devour him.

Sir _Mer._ I applaud your choice, Cousin; for what Man of Bravery wou'd not prefer a Rake to a Wit? The one enjoys the Pleasures the other can only rail at; and that not out of Conscience, but Impotence: for alas!

a Wit has no quarrel to Vice in Perfection, but what the Fox had to the Grapes; he can't play away his hundred Pound at sight; his Third Day won't afford it; and therefore he rails at Gamesters; Wh.o.r.es shun him, as much as n.o.blemen, and for the same cause, Money; those care not to sell their Carcases for a Sonnet, nor these to scatter their Guineas, to be told an old Tale of a Tub, they were so well acquainted with before.

Sir _Morg._ What's that, Sir _Merlin_?

Sir _Mer._ Why, their Praise;--for the Poet's Flattery seldom reaches the Patron's Vanity; and what's too strong season'd for the rest of the World, is too weak for their Palates.

Sir _Morg._ Why, look ye, Cousin, you're a shreud Fellow: Whence learn'd you this Satire? for I'm sure 'tis none of thy own; for I shou'd as soon suspect thee guilty of good Nature, as Wit.

Sir _Mer._ I scorn it; and therefore I confess I stole the Observation from a Poet; but the Devil pick his Bones for diverting me from the n.o.ble Theme of Rakeh.e.l.ls.