(_Aside._

_Miran._ And advise his Impertinence to trouble me no more, for I prefer Sir _Francis_ for a Husband before all the Fops in the Universe.

_Marpl._ Oh Lord, Oh Lord! She's bewitch'd, that's certain; Here's a Husband for Eighteen--Here's a Shape--Here's Bones ratling in a Leathern Bag. (_Turning Sir _Francis_ about._) Here's Buckram, and Canva.s.s, to scrub you to Repentance.

Sir _Fran._ Sirrah, my Cane shall teach you Repentance presently.

_Marpl._ No faith, I have felt its Twin-Brother from just such a wither'd Hand too lately.

_Miran._ One thing more, advise him to keep from the Garden Gate on the left Hand; for if he dares to saunter there, about the Hour of Eight, as he used to do, he shall be saluted with a Pistol or a Blunderbuss.

_Sir Fran._ Oh monstrous! why _Chargee_; did he use to come to the Garden Gate?

_Miran._ The Gardner describ'd just such another Man that always watch'd his coming out, and fain wou'd have bribed him for his Entrance--tell him he shall find a warm Reception if he comes this Night.

_Marpl._ Pistols and Blunderbusses! Egad, a warm Reception indeed; I shall take care to inform him of your Kindness, and advise him to keep farther off.

_Miran._ I hope he will understand my Meaning better, than to follow your Advice.

(_Aside._

Sir _Fran._ Thou hast sign'd, seal'd, and ta'en Possession of my Heart; for ever, _Chargee_, Ha, ha, ha; and for you, Mr. Sauce-box, let me have no more of your Messages, if ever you design to inherit your Estate, Gentleman.

_Marpl._ Why there 'tis now. Sure I shall be out of your Clutches one Day.--Well, _Guardian_, I say no more; but if you be not as errant a Cuckold, as e're drove Bargain upon the Exchange, or paid Attendance to a Court; I am the Son of a Whetstone; and so your humble Servant.

(_Exit._

_Miran._ Don't forget the Message; Ha, ha.

Sir _Fran._ I am so provok'd!--'tis well he's gone.

_Miran._ Oh mind him not, _Gardee_, but let's sign Articles, and then--

Sir _Fran._ And then--Adod, I believe I am Metamorphos'd; my Pulse beats high, and my Blood boils, methinks-- (_Kissing and Hugging her._

_Miran._ Oh fye, _Gardee_, be not so violent; Consider the Market lasts all the Year--Well, I'll in and see if the Lawyer be come, you'll follow.

(_Exit._

Sir _Fran._ Ay, to the World's End, my Dear. Well, _Franck_, thou art a lucky Fellow in thy old Age, to have such a delicate Morsel, and Thirty Thousand Pound in love with thee; I shall be the Envy of Batchelors, the Glory of Marry'd Men, and the Wonder of the Town. Some Guardians wou'd be glad to compound for part of the Estate, at dispatching an Heiress, but I engross the whole: _O! Mihi praeteritos referet si Jupiter Annos._ (Exit.

SCENE _Changes to a Tavern; discovers Sir _George_ and _Charles_ with Wine before them, and _Whisper_ waiting._

Sir _Geo._ Nay, prithee don't be Grave, _Charles;_ Misfortunes will happen: Ha, ha, ha, 'tis some Comfort to have a Companion in our Sufferings.

_Char._ I am only apprehensive for _Isabinda_, her Father's Humour is implacable; and how far his Jealousie may transport him to her Undoing, shocks my Soul to think.

Sir _Geo._ But since you escap'd undiscover'd by him, his Rage will quickly lash into a Calm, never fear it.

_Char._ But who knows what that unlucky Dog, _Marplot_, told him; nor can I imagine what brought him thither; that Fellow is ever doing Mischief; and yet, to give him his due, he never designs it. This is some Blundering Adventure, wherein he thought to shew his Friendship, as he calls it: A Curse on him.

Sir _Geo._ Then you must forgive him; what said he?

_Char._ Said! nay, I had more mind to cut his Throat, than hear his Excuses.

Sir _Geo._ Where is he?

_Whisp._ Sir, I saw him go into Sir _Francis Gripe_'s just now.

_Char._ Oh! then he is upon your Business, Sir _George_; a thousand to one, but he makes some Mistake there too.

Sir _Geo._ Impossible, without he huffs the Lady, and makes Love to Sir _Francis_.

_Enter Drawer._

_Draw._ Mr. _Marplot_ is below, Gentlemen, and desires to know if he may have Leave to wait upon ye.

_Char._ How civil the Rogue is when he has done a fault!

Sir _Geo._ Ho! Desire him to walk up. Prithee, _Charles_, throw off this Chagreen, and be good Company.

_Char._ Nay, hang him, I'm not angry with him. _Whisper_, fetch me Pen, Ink and Paper.

_Whisp._ Yes, Sir.

(_Ex. _Whisp_._

_Enter _Marplot_._

_Char._ Do but mark his sheepish Look, Sir _George_.

_Marpl._ Dear _Charles,_ don't o'erwhelm a Man--already under insupportable Affliction. I'm sure I always intend to serve my Friends; but if my malicious Stars deny the Happiness, is the fault mine?

Sir _Geo._ Never mind him, Mr. _Marplot_, he is eat up with Spleen. But tell me, what says _Miranda?_

_Marpl._ Says--nay, we are all undone there too.

_Char._ I told you so; nothing prospers that he undertakes.

_Marpl._ Why can I help her having chose your Father for Better for Worse?

_Char._ So: There's another of Fortune's Strokes; I suppose I shall be Edg'd out of my Estate, with Twins every Year, let who will get 'em.

Sir _Geo._ What is the Woman really Possest?

_Marpl._ Yes with the Spirit of Contradiction, she rail'd at you most prodigiously.

Sir _Geo._ That's no ill Sign.

_Enter _Whisper_, with Pen, Ink and Paper._