_Swan Tavern_ in _Cornhil_. [_Exeunt_.

Mrs. _Lov_. Now will I be Spitchcockt, if she han't an Inclination for the
_Collonel_, to coquet, and flirt and fleer, and plague half Mankind, only
because they like her, may be what you call a fine Lady, but in my mind
she has more fantastical Airs than a Kettle-Drummer. [_Exit._



SCENE, _a Room in the_ Rose-Tavern.

_The Bell rings_.

[_Bar-keeper without_.] Where a Pox are you all; must Company wait an Hour
for a Room?

[_A noise of Drawers_.] Coming, coming, coming, Sir.

_Enter a Drawer with Lights_, Shrimp, Knapsack, and Master _Totty_.

_Draw_. Please to be here, Gentlemen?

_Shr_. What's become of your Beau-Drawer, that wore a long _Spanish_ Wig,
lac'd Linnen, silk Stockings, and a Patch?

_Draw_. He happen'd, Sir, to make bold with a silver _Monteth,_ and is
gone for a Soldier--What Wine are you for Gentlemen?

_Shr._ [_Aside to the Drawer_.] D'you know Sir _Harry Sprightly,_ Friend?