, I think I do, here be the marks on't
sure.--
[Pulls off his Peruke, and shews his Head broke.

_Lod._ Ads me, your Head's broke.

Sir _Cred._ My Head broke! why, 'twas a hundred to one but my Neck had
been broke.

_Lod._ Faith, not unlikely,--you know the next House is Sir _Patient
Fancy's_; _Isabella_ too, you know, is his Daughter.

Sir _Cred._ Yes, yes, she was by when I made my dumb Oration.

_Lod._ The same,--this Lady has a Lover, a mad, furious, fighting,
killing Hector, (as you know there are enough about this Town) this
Monsieur supposing you to be a Rival, and that your Serenade was
address'd to her--

Sir _Cred._ Enough, I understand you, set those Rogues on to murder me.

_Lod._ Wou'd 'twere no worse.

Sir _Cred._ Worse! Zoz, Man, what the Devil can be worse?

_Lod._ Why, he has vow'd to kill you himself wherever he meets you, and
now waits below to that purpose.

Sir _Cred._ Sha, sha, if that be all, I'll to him immediately, and make
Affidavit I never had any such design. Madam _Isabella_! ha, ha, alas,
poor man, I have some body else to think on.

_Lod._ Affidavit! why, he'll not believe you, should you swear your
Heart out: some body has possess'd him that you are a damn'd Fool, and a
most egregious Coward, a Fellow that to save your Life will swear any
thing.

Sir _Cred._ What cursed Luck's this!--why, how came he to know I liv'd
here?

_Lod._ I believe he might have it from _Leander_, who is his Friend.

Sir _Cred._ _Leander!_ I must confess I never lik'd that _Leander_ since
yesterday.

_Lod._ He has deceiv'd us all, that's the truth on't; for I have lately
found out too, that he's your Rival, and has a kind of a--

Sir _Cred._ Smattering to my Mistress, hah, and therefore wou'd not be
wanting to give me a lift out of this World; but I shall give her such a
go-by--my Lady _Knowell_ understands the difference between three
Thousand a Year, and--prithee what's his Estate?

_Lod._ Shaw--not sufficient to pay Surgeons Bills.

Sir _Cred._ Alas, poor Rat, how does he live then?

_Lod._ Hang him, the Ladies keep him; 'tis a good handsome Fellow, and
has a pretty Town-Wit.

Sir _Cred._ He a Wit! what, I'll warrant he writes Lampoons, rails at
Plays, curses all Poetry but his own, and mimicks the Players--ha.

_Lod._ Some such common Notions he has that deceives the ignorant
Rabble, amongst whom he passes for a very smart Fellow,--'life, he's
here.

Enter _Leander_.

Si