Sir _Tim_. Why, dost think I'll be confin'd to my own dull Enclosure?
No, I had rather feed coarsely upon the boundless Common; perhaps two or
three days I may be in love, and remain constant, but that's the most.

_Sharp_. And in three Weeks, should you wed a _Cynthia_, you'd be a
Monster.

Sir _Tim_. What, thou meanest a Cuckold, I warrant. God help thee! But a
Monster is only so from its Rarity, and a Cuckold is no such strange
thing in our Age.

_Enter_ Bellmour _and_ Friendlove.

But who comes here? _Bellmour!_ Ah, my little dear Rogue! how dost thou?
--_Ned Friendlove_ too! Dear Lad, how dost thou too? Why, welcome to
Town, i'faith, and I'm glad to see you both.

_Friend_. Sir _Timothy Tawdrey!_--

Sir _Tim_. The same, by Fortune, dear _Ned_: And how, and how, Man, how
go Matters?

_Friend_. Between who, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Why, any Body, Man; but, by Fortune, I'm overjoy'd to meet
thee: But where dost think I was going?

_Friend_. Is't possible one shou'd divine?