VALENTINE, SCANDAL, TRAPLAND, JEREMY.

VAL. Oh, Mr Trapland! My old friend! Welcome. Jeremy, a chair quickly: a bottle of sack and a toast--fly--a chair first.

TRAP. A good morning to you, Mr Valentine, and to you, Mr Scandal.

SCAN. The morning's a very good morning, if you don't spoil it.

VAL. Come, sit you down, you know his way.

TRAP. [sits.] There is a debt, Mr Valentine, of 1500 pounds of pretty long standing -

VAL. I cannot talk about business with a thirsty palate. Sirrah, the sack.

TRAP. And I desire to know what course you have taken for the payment?

VAL. Faith and troth, I am heartily glad to see you. My service to you. Fill, fill to honest Mr Trapland--fuller.

TRAP. Hold, sweetheart: this is not to our business. My service to you, Mr Scandal. [Drinks.] I have forborne as long -

VAL. T'other glass, and then we'll talk. Fill, Jeremy.

TRAP. No more, in truth. I have forborne, I say -

VAL. Sirrah, fill when I bid you. And how does your handsome daughter? Come, a good husband to her. [Drinks.]

TRAP. Thank you. I have been out of this money -

VAL. Drink first. Scandal, why do you not drink? [They drink.]

TRAP. And, in short, I can be put off no longer.

VAL. I was much obliged to you for your supply. It did me signal service in my necessity. But you delight in doing good. Scandal, drink to me, my friend Trapland's health. An honester man lives not, nor one more ready to serve his friend in distress: though I say it to his face. Come, fill each man his glass.

SCAN. What, I know Trapland has been a whoremaster, and loves a wench still. You never knew a whoremaster that was not an honest fellow.

TRAP. Fie, Mr Scandal, you never knew -

SCAN. What don't I know? I know the buxom black widow in the Poultry. 800 pounds a year jointure, and 20,000 pounds in money. Aha! old Trap.

VAL. Say you so, i'faith? Come, we'll remember the widow. I know whereabouts you are; come, to the widow -

TRAP. No more, indeed.

VAL. What, the widow's health; give it him--off with it. [They drink.] A lovely girl, i'faith, black sparkling eyes, soft pouting ruby lips! Better sealing there than a bond for a million, ha?

TRAP. No, no, there's no such thing; we'd better mind our business. You're a wag.

VAL. No, faith, we'll mind the widow's business: fill again. Pretty round heaving breasts, a Barbary shape, and a jut with her bum would stir an anchoret: and the prettiest foot! Oh, if a man could but fasten his eyes to her feet as they steal in and out, and play at bo-peep under her petticoats, ah! Mr Trapland?

TRAP. Verily, give me a glass. You're a wag,--and here's to the widow. [Drinks.]

SCAN. He begins to chuckle; ply him close, or he'll relapse into a dun.