chambers, and run fearfully,
Like Rats from burning houses, so brought I
My Clyents[a] the game still safe together,
And noble gamesters lov'd me, and I felt it.
Give me a man that lives by his wits, say I,
And's never left a Groat, there's the true Gallant.
When I grew somewhat pursie, I grew then
In mens opinions too, and confidences,
They put things call'd Executorships upon me,
The charge of Orphans, little sensless creatures,
Whom in their Childhoods I bound forth to Felt-makers,
To make 'em lose, and work away their Gentry,
Disguise their tender natures with hard custom,
So wrought 'em out in time, there I rise ungently,
Nor do I fear to discourse this unto thee,
I'm arm'd at all points against treachery,
I hold my humor firm, if I can see thee thrive by
Thy wits while I live, I shall have the more courage
To trust thee with my Lands when I dye; if not,
The next best wit I can hear of, carries 'em:
For since in my time and knowledge, so many rich children
Of the City, conclude in beggery, I'de rather
Make a wise stranger my Executor, then a foolish
Son my Heir, and to have my Lands call'd after my
Wit, than after my name; and that's my nature.
Witty. 'Tis a strange harsh one, must I still shift then?
I come brave Cheats, once to my trade agen.
And I'll ply't harder now than e'er I did for't,
You'll part with nothing then, Sir?
Old K. Not a jot, Sir.
Witty. If I should ask you blessing e'r I goe, Sir,
I think you would not give't me.
Old K. Let me but hear thou liv'st by thy wits once
Thou shalt have any thing, thou'rt none of mine else,
Then why should I take care for thee?
Witty. 'Thank your bounty.
Old K. So wealth love me, and long life, I beseech it,
As I do love the man that lives by his wits,
He comes so near my nature; I'm grown old now,
And even arriv'd at my last cheat I fear me,
But 'twill make shift to bury me, by day-light too,
And discharge all my Legacies, 'tis so wealthy,
And never trouble any Interest money:
I've yet a Neece to wed, over whose steps
I have plac'd a trusty watchful Guardianess,
For fear some poor Earl steal her, 't has been threat'ned,
To redeem mortgag'd Land, but he shall miss on't;
To prevent which, I have sought out a match for her,
Fop of Fop-Hall, he writes himself, I take it,
The antient'st Fop in England, with whom I've privately
Compounded for the third part of her portion.
And she seems pleas'd, so two parts rest with me,
He's come; Sir Gregory, welcome, what's he Sir?
Sir Greg. Young Cuningam, a Norfolk Gentleman,
One that has liv'd upon the Fops, my kindred,
Ever since my remembrance; he's a wit indeed,
And we all strive to have him, nay, 'tis certain
Some of our name has gone to Law for him;
Now 'tis my turn to keep him, and indeed
He's plaguy chargeable, as all your wits are,
But I will give him over when I list,
I ha' us'd wits so before.
Old K. I hope when y'are married Sir, you'll shake him off.
Sir Greg. Why what do you take me to be, old Fatheri'Law that shall be, do you think I'll have any of the Wits hang upon me, after I am married once? none of my kindred ever had before me; but where's this Neece? is't a fashion in London, to marry a woman and never see her?
Old K. Excuse the niceness, Sir, that care's your frien[d],
Perhaps had she been seen, you had never seen her;
There's many a spent thing call'd, and't like your honor,
That lies in wait for her, at first snap she's a Countess,
Drawn with six Mares through Fleetstreet, and a Coachman,
Sitting bare-headed to their Flanders buttocks,
This whets him on.
Sir Greg. Pray let's clap up the business, Sir,
I long to see her, are you sure you have her,
Is she not there already[?] Hark, oh hark.
Old K. How now, what's that Sir?
Sir Greg. Every Caroach goes by,
Goes ev'n to th' heart of me.
Old K. I'll have that doubt eas'd, Sir,
Instantly eas'd, Sir Gregory, and now I think on't
A toy comes i' my mind, seeing your friend there,
We'll have a little sport, give you but way to't,
And put a trick upon her, I love Wit pretiously,
You shall not be seen yet, we'll stale your friend first,
If't please but him to stand for the Anti-mask.
Sir Gr. Puh, he shall stand for any thing, why his supper
Lies i'my breeches here, I'll make him fast else.
Old K. Then come you forth more unexpectedly
The Mask it self, a thousand a year joynture,
The cloud, your frien[d] will be then drawn away,
And only you the beauty of the Play.
Sir Gr. For Red and Black, I'll put down all your Fullers,
Let but your Neece bring White, and we have three colours.
Old K. I'm given to understand you are a Wit, Sir.
Cuning. I'm one that Fortune shews small favour to, Sir.
Old K. Why there you conclude it, whether you will or no, Sir;
To tell you truth, I'm taken with a Wit.
Cun. Fowlers catch Woodcocks so, let not them know so much.
Old K. A pestilence mazard, a Duke Humphrey spark
Had rather lose his dinner than his jest,
I say I love a Wit the best of all things.
Cun.