inion 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.

_Ran._ Come, now you shall see what my High-land Valet can do.
[A _Scots_ Dance.

_Dull._ So--I see, let the World go which way it will, Widow, you are
resolv'd