_Flaunt_. Wou'd she so, Impudence!
[_Pulls off her Mask_.

Sir _Tim_. How, my _Betty_!

_Flaunt_. This is the Trade you drive, you eternal Fop, when I sit at
home expecting you Night after Night.

Sir _Tim_. Nay, dear Betty!

_Flaunt_. 'Tis here you spend that which shou'd buy me Points and
Petticoats, whilst I go like no body's Mistress; I'd as live be your
Wife at this rate, so I had: and I'm in no small danger of getting the
foul Disease by your Leudness.

Sir _Tim_. Victorious _Betty_, be merciful, and do not ruin my Reputation
amongst my Friends.

_Flaunt_. Your Whores you mean, you Sot you.

Sir _Tim_. Nay, triumphant _Betty_, hear thy poor _Timmy_.

_Flaunt_. My poor _Ninny_, I'm us'd barbarously, and won't endure it.

Sir _Tim_. I've won Money to Night, _Betty_, to buy thee Clothes--hum
--hum--Well said, _Frank_, towse the little Jilts, they came for that
purpose.

_Flaunt_. The Devil confound him, what a Prize have I lost by his being
here--my Comfort is, he has not found me out though, but thinks I came