Our house fill'd often with the best of company?

THOMAS. The best saidst thou? O! no, the worst of all,
A shameless crew of fashionable pillagers;
So that this bank house, by their nightly riot,
Might rather seem a rake-frequented tavern;
And ruin is their sport. Is not each servant
A worn-out victim to those midnight revels,
Without a sabbath's rest? (For in these times,
All sanctity is scoff'd at by the great,
And heaven's just wrath defy'd.) An honest master,
Scarcely a month beyond his fiftieth year,
(Heart-rent with trouble at these sad proceedings,)
Wears to the eye a visage of fourscore:
Nor to be wondered at.

MARIA. You dream too much.

THOMAS. O! it is seen by all. Oft through his groves,
With folded arms and downcast looks he saunters,
Ev'n 'midst the dank inclemency of night.

MARIA. You're too severe, too scrupulous; why, man,
My mistress is a perfect saint, compar'd
With some of those I formerly have serv'd.

THOMAS. Her conduct has of late been foully censur'd.
But I've disclos'd the whole to our kind neighbours
Wilson and Goodwin, his most faithful friends--