were she, I know what I wou'd do--

Sir _Tim_. Thou do--what thou wouldst have done sixty Years ago,
thou meanest.

_Nur_. Marry come up, for a stinking Knight; worse than I have gone
down with you, e'er now--Sixty Years ago, quoth ye--As old as I am--
I live without Surgeons, wear my own Hair, am not in Debt to my Taylor,
as thou art, and art fain to kiss his Wife, to persuade her Husband
to be merciful to thee--who wakes thee every Morning with his Clamour
and long Bills, at thy Chamber-door.

Sir _Tim_. Prithee, good Matron, Peace; I'll compound with thee.

_Nur_. 'Tis more than thou wilt do with thy Creditors, who, poor Souls,
despair of a Groat in the Pound for all thou ow'st them, for Points,
Lace, and Garniture--for all, in fine, that makes thee a complete Fop.

Sir _Tim_. Hold, hold thy eternal Clack.

_Nur_. And when none would trust thee farther, give Judgments for twice
the Money thou borrowest, and swear thy self at Age; and lastly--to
patch up your broken Fortune, you wou'd fain marry my sweet Mistress
_Celinda_ here--But, Faith, Sir, you're mistaken, her Fortune shall not
go to the Maintenance of your Misses; which being once sure of, she,
poor Soul, is sent down to the Country-house, to learn Housewifery, and
live without Mankind, unless she can serve her self with the handsom
Steward, or so--whilst you tear it away in Town, and live like Man and
Wife with your Jilt, and are every Day seen in the Glass Coach, whilst
your own natural Lady is hardly worth the Hire of a Hack.