Part 14

_Lady Brute._ Your Sufferings eas'd, your Flame wou'd soon abate: And that I would preserve, not quench it, Sir.

_Const._ Wou'd you preserve it, nourish it with Favours; for that's the Food it naturally requires.

_Lady Brute._ Yet on that natural Food 'twould surfeit soon, shou'd I resolve to grant all you wou'd ask.

_Const._ And in refusing all, you starve it. Forgive me, therefore, since my Hunger rages, if I at last grow wild, and in my frenzy force at least this from you. [_Kissing her Hand._] Or if you'd have my Flame soar higher still, then grant me this, and this, and Thousands more; [_Kissing first her Hand, then her Neck._] [_Aside._] For now's the time she melts into Compassion.

_Lady Brute._ [_Aside._] Poor Coward Virtue, how it shuns the Battle! O Heavens! let me go.

_Const._ Ay, go, ay: Where shall we go, my charming Angel----into this private Arbour----Nay, let's lose no time----Moments are precious.

_Lady Brute._ And Lovers wild. Pray let us stop here; at least for this time.

_Const._ 'Tis impossible; he that has power over you, can have none over himself.

_As he is forcing her into the Arbour, Lady ~Fancyfull~ and ~Madamoiselle~ bolt out upon them, and run over the Stage._

_Lady Brute._ Ah! I'm lost!

_Lady Fan._ Fe, fe, fe, fe, fe.

_Madam._ Fe, fe, fe, fe, fe.

_Const._ Death and Furies, who are these?

_Lady Brute._ O Heavens! I'm out of my Wits; if they knew me, I am ruin'd.

_Const._ Don't be frightened: Ten thousand to one they are Strangers to you.

_Lady Brute._ Whatever they are, I won't stay here a Moment longer.

_Const._ Whither will you go?

_Lady Brute._ Home, as if the Devil were in me. Lord, where's this _Belinda_ now?

_Enter ~Belinda~ and ~Heartfree~._

O! 'tis well you are come: I'm so frightened, my Hair stands an end. Let's be gone, for Heaven's sake!

_Bel._ Lord, what's the matter?

_Lady Brute._ The Devil's the Matter; we are discovered. Here's a couple of Women have done the most impertinent thing. Away, away, away, away, away.

[_Exit running._

_Re-enter Lady ~Fancyfull~ and ~Madamoiselle~._

_Lady Fan._ Well, _Madamoiselle_, 'tis a prodigious thing how Women can suffer filthy Fellows to grow so familiar with 'em.

Madam. _Ah Madame, il n'y a rien de si naturel._

_Lady Fan._ Fe, fe, fe! But, oh my Heart! O Jealousy! O Torture! I'm upon the rack. What shall I do? My Lover's lost, I ne'er shall see him mine. [_Pausing._]----But I may be reveng'd; and that's the same thing. Ah sweet Revenge! Thou welcome Thought, thou healing Balsam to my wounded Soul! Be but propitious on this one Occasion, I'll place my Heaven in thee, for all my Life to come.

To Woman how indulgent Nature's kind! No Blast of Fortune long disturbs her Mind: Compliance to her Fate supports her still; If Love won't make her happy--Mischief will.

[_Exeunt._

+ACT+ V.

+SCENE+, _Lady_ Fancyfull's _House_.

_Enter Lady ~Fancyfull~ and ~Madamoiselle~._

_Lady Fan._ Well, _Madamoiselle_, did you dog the filthy Things?

Madam. _O que ouy, Madame._

_Lady Fan._ And where are they?

Madam. _Au Logis._

_Lady Fan._ What, Men and all?

Madam. _Tous ensemble._

_Lady Fan._ O Confidence! What, carry their Fellows to their own House?

Madam. _C'est que le Mari n'y est pas._

_Lady Fan._ No; so I believe, truly. But he shall be there, and quickly too, if I can find him out. Well, 'tis a prodigious thing, to see when Men and Women get together, how they fortify one another in their Impudence. But if that drunken Fool, her Husband, he to be found in e'er a Tavern in Town, I'll send him amongst 'em: I'll spoil their sport.

Madam. _En verité, Madame, ce seroit domage._

_Lady Fan._ 'Tis in vain to oppose it, _Madamoiselle_; therefore never go about it. For I am the steadiest Creature in the World--when I have determin'd to do Mischief. So, come along.

[_Exeunt._

+SCENE+, _Sir ~John Brute~'s House_.

_Enter ~Constant~, ~Heartfree~, Lady ~Brute~, ~Belinda~, and ~Lovewell~._

_Lady Brute._ But are you sure you don't mistake, _Lovewell_?

_Lov._ Madam, I saw 'em all go into the Tavern together, and my Master was so drunk he cou'd scarce stand.

_Lady Brute._ Then, Gentlemen, I believe we may venture to let you stay, and play at Cards with us, an Hour or two: For they'll scarce part till Morning.

_Bel._ I think 'tis pity they should ever part.

_Const._ The Company that's here, Madam.

_Lady Brute._ Then, Sir, the Company that's here must remember to part itself in time.

_Const._ Madam, we don't intend to forfeit your future Favours by an indiscreet Usage of this. The Moment you give us the Signal, we shan't fail to make our Retreat.

_Lady Brute._ Upon those Conditions, then, let us sit down to Cards.

_Enter ~Lovewell~._

_Lov._ O Lord, Madam, here's my Master just staggering in upon you; he has been quarrelsome yonder, and they have kick'd him out of the Company.

_Lady Brute._ Into the Closet, Gentlemen, for Heaven's sake; I'll wheedle him to Bed, if possible.

[_~Const.~ and ~Heart.~ run into the Closet._

_Enter Sir ~John~, all dirt and bloody._

_Lady Brute._ Ah----Ah----he's all over Blood!

_Sir John._ What the plague does the Woman--squall for? Did you never see a Man in Pickle before?

_Lady Brute._ Lord, where have you been?

_Sir John._ I have been at----Cuffs.

_Lady Brute._ I fear that is not all. I hope you are not wounded.

_Sir John._ Sound as a Roach, Wife.

_Lady Brute._ I'm mighty glad to hear it.

_Sir John._ You know--I think you lye.

_Lady Brute._ You do me wrong to think so. For Heaven's my Witness; I had rather see my own Blood trickle down, than yours.

_Sir John._ Then will I be crucify'd.

_Lady Brute._ 'Tis a hard Fate, I shou'd not be believ'd.

_Sir John._ 'Tis a damn'd Atheistical Age, Wife.

_Lady Brute._ I am sure I have given you a thousand tender Proofs, how great my Care is of you. But, spite of all your cruel Thoughts, I'll still persist, and at this Moment, if I can, persuade you to lie down and sleep a little.

_Sir John._ Why--do you think I am drunk--you Slut, you?

_Lady Brute._ Heaven forbid I shou'd! But I'm afraid you are feverish. Pray let me feel your Pulse.

_Sir John._ Stand off, and be damn'd.

_Lady Brute._ Why, I see your Distemper in your very Eyes. You are all on Fire. Pray, go to Bed; let me intreat you.

_Sir John._----Come, kiss me, then.

_Lady Brute._ [_Kissing him._] There: Now go. [_Aside._] He stinks like Poison.

_Sir John._ I see it goes damnably against your Stomach--And therefore--Kiss me again.

_Lady Brute._ Nay, now you fool me.

_Sir John._ Do't, I say.

_Lady Brute._ [_Aside._] Ah, Lord have mercy upon me! Well--there: now will you go?

_Sir John._ Now, Wife, you shall see my Gratitude. You gave me two Kisses--I'll give you--two hundred.

[_Kisses, and tumbles her._

_Lady Brute._ O Lord! Pray, Sir John, be quiet. Heavens, what a Pickle am I in!

_Bel._ [_Aside._] If I were in her Pickle, I'd call my Gallant out of the Closet, and he shou'd cudgel him soundly.

_Sir John._ So, now you being as dirty and as nasty as myself, we may go pig together. But first I must have a Cup of your cold Tea, Wife.

[_Going to the Closet._

_Lady Brute._ O I'm ruin'd! There's none there, my Dear.

_Sir John._ I'll warrant you I'll find some, my Dear.

_Lady Brute._ You can't open the Door, the Lock's spoil'd; I have been turning and turning the Key this half Hour to no purpose. I'll send for the Smith to-morrow.

_Sir John._ There's ne'er a Smith in _Europe_ can open a Door with more Expedition than I can do----As for Example--Poh! [_He bursts open the Door with his Foot._]----How now! What the Devil have we got here?----_Constant_----_Heartfree_----And two Whores again, I'gad----This is the worst cold Tea----that ever I met with in my Life----

_Enter ~Constant~ and ~Heartfree~._

_Lady Brute._ [_Aside._] O Lord, what will become of us?

_Sir John._ Gentlemen----I am your very humble Servant--I give you many Thanks----I see you take Care of my Family----I shall do all I can to return the Obligation.

_Const._ Sir, how oddly soever this Business may appear to you, you would have no cause to be uneasy, if you knew the Truth of all things; your Lady is the most virtuous Woman in the World, and nothing has past but an innocent Frolick.

_Heart._ Nothing else, upon my Honour, Sir.

_Sir John._ You are both very civil Gentlemen--And my Wife, there, is a very civil Gentlewoman; therefore I don't doubt but many civil things have past between you. Your very humble Servant.

_Lady Brute._ [_Aside to ~Const~._] Pray be gone: He's so drunk he can't hurt us to-night, and to-morrow Morning you shall hear from us.

_Const._ I'll obey you, Madam. Sir, when you are cool, you'll understand Reason better. So then I shall take the pains to inform you. If not----I wear a Sword, Sir, and so good by t'ye. Come along, _Heartfree_.

[_Exit._

_Sir John._ Wear a Sword, Sir--And what of all that, Sir? He comes to my House; eats my Meat; lies with my Wife; dishonours my Family; gets a Bastard to inherit my Estate----And when I ask a civil Account of all this--Sir, says he, I wear a Sword--Wear a Sword, Sir? Yes, Sir, says he, I wear a Sword----It may be a good Answer at Cross-purposes; but 'tis a damn'd one to a Man in my whimsical Circumstance----Sir, says he, I wear a Sword! [_To Lady ~Brute~._] And what do you wear now? ha! tell me. [_Sitting down in a great Chair._] What, you are modest, and can't--Why, then, I'll tell you, you Slut, you. You wear----an impudent, lewd Face----A damn'd designing Heart----And a Tail----and a Tail full of----[_He falls fast asleep, snoaring._]

_Lady Brute._ So; thanks to kind Heaven, he's fast for some Hours.

_Bel._ 'Tis well he is so, that we may have time to lay our Story handsomely; for we must lye like the Devil, to bring ourselves off.

_Lady Brute._ What shall we say, _Belinda_?

_Bel._ [_Musing._]----I'll tell you: It must all light upon _Heartfree_ and I. We'll say he has courted me some time, but, for Reasons unknown to us, has ever been very earnest the thing might be kept from Sir _John_. That therefore hearing him upon the Stairs, he ran into the Closet, tho' against our Will, and _Constant_ with him, to prevent Jealousy. And to give this a good impudent Face of Truth, (that I may deliver you from the trouble you are in) I'll e'en, if he pleases, marry him.

_Lady Brute._ I'm beholden to you, Cousin; but that wou'd be carrying the Jest a little too far for your own sake: You know he's a younger Brother, and has nothing.

_Bel._ 'Tis true: But I like him, and have Fortune enough to keep above Extremity: I can't say I would live with him in a Cell, upon Love and Bread and Butter: But I had rather have the Man I love, and a middle State of Life, than that Gentleman in the Chair there, and twice your Ladyship's Splendour.

_Lady Brute._ In truth, Niece, you are in the right on't; for I am very uneasy with my Ambition. But, perhaps, had I married as you'll do, I might have been as ill us'd.

_Bel._ Some Risk, I do confess, there always is: But if a Man has the least Spark either of Honour or Good-nature, he can never use a Woman ill, that loves him, and makes his Fortune both. Yet I must own to you, some little struggling I still have with this teazing Ambition of ours; for Pride, you know, is as natural to a Woman, as 'tis to a Saint. I can't help being fond of this Rogue; and yet it goes to my Heart, to think I must never whisk to _Hyde-Park_ with above a Pair of Horses; have no Coronet upon my Coach, nor a Page to carry up my Train. But above all--that Business of Place--Well, taking place is a noble Prerogative--

_Lady Brute._ Especially after a Quarrel--

_Bel._ Or of a Rival. But pray say no more on't, for fear I change my Mind; for, o' my Conscience, wer't not for your Affair in the Balance, I should go near to pick up some odious Man of Quality yet, and only take poor _Heartfree_ for a Gallant.

_Lady Brute._ Then him you must have, however things go?

_Bel._ Yes.

_Lady Brute._ Why, we may pretend what we will: but 'tis a hard matter to live without the Man we love.

_Bel._ Especially when we are married to the Man we hate. Pray tell me: Do the Men of the Town ever believe us virtuous, when they see us do so?

_Lady Brute._ O, no: Nor indeed, hardly, let us do what we will. The most of them think, there is no such thing as Virtue, consider'd in the strictest Notions of it; and therefore when you hear 'em say, such a one is a Woman of Reputation, they only mean she's a Woman of Discretion. For they consider we have no more Religion than they have, nor so much Morality; and between you and I, _Belinda_, I'm afraid the want of Inclination seldom protects any of us.

_Bel._ But what think you of the Fear of being found out?

_Lady Brute._ I think That never kept any Woman virtuous long. We are not such Cowards, neither. No: Let us once pass Fifteen, and we have too good an Opinion of our own Cunning, to believe the World can penetrate into what we would keep a Secret. And so, in short, we cannot reasonably blame the Men for judging of us by themselves.

_Bel._ But sure we are not so wicked as they are, after all?

_Lady Brute._ We are as wicked, Child, but our Vice lies another way: Men have more Courage than we, so they commit more bold, impudent Sins. They quarrel, fight, swear, drink, blaspheme, and the like: Whereas we, being Cowards, only backbite, tell Lyes, cheat at Cards, and so forth. But 'tis late: Let's end our Discourse for to-night, and, out of an excess of Charity, take a small Care of that nasty, drunken Thing there----Do but look at him, _Belinda_!

_Bel._ Ah----'tis a savoury Dish.

_Lady Brute._ As savoury as 'tis, I'm cloy'd with't. Pr'ythee call the Butler to take it away.

_Bel._ Call the Butler!----Call the Scavenger! [_To a Servant within._] Who's there? Call _Rasor_! Let him take away his Master, scour him clean with a little Sope and Sand, and so put him to Bed.

_Lady Brute._ Come, _Belinda_, I'll e'en lie with you to-night; and in the Morning we'll send for our Gentlemen to set this Matter even.

_Bel._ With all my Heart.

_Lady Brute._ Good Night, my Dear.

[_Making a low Curtsy to Sir ~John~._

[_Both._] Ha, ha, ha!

[_Exeunt._

_Enter ~Rasor~._

_Rasor._ My Lady there's a Wag--My Master there's a Cuckold. Marriage is a slippery thing--Women have depraved Appetites.--My Lady's a Wag; I have heard all; I have seen all; I understand all; and I'll tell all; for my little _French-woman_ loves News dearly. This Story'll gain her Heart, or nothing will. [_To his Master._] Come, Sir, your Head's too full of Fumes at present, to make room for your Jealousy; but I reckon we shall have rare work with you, when your Pate's empty. Come to your Kennel, you cuckoldly, drunken Sot, you!

[_Carries him out upon his Back._

+SCENE+, _Lady_ Fancyfull's _House_.

_Enter Lady ~Fancyfull~ and ~Madamoiselle~._

_Lady Fan._ But, why did not you tell me before, _Madamoiselle_, that _Rasor_ and you were fond?

_Madam._ De Modesty hinder me, Matam.

_Lady Fan._ Why, truly, Modesty does often hinder us from doing things we have an extravagant mind to. But does he love you well enough yet, to do any thing you bid him? Do you think, to oblige you, he wou'd speak Scandal?

_Madam._ Matam, to oblige your Ladyship, he shall speak Blasphemy.

_Lady Fan._ Why, then, _Madamoiselle_, I'll tell you what you shall do. You shall engage him to tell his Master all that past at _Spring Garden_: I have a mind he shou'd know what a Wife and a Niece he has got.

Madam. _Il le fera, Madame._

_Enter a Footman, who speaks to ~Madamoiselle~ apart._

_Foot._ _Madamoiselle_, yonder's Mr. _Rasor_ desires to speak with you.

_Madam._ Tell him, I come presently. [_Exit Footman._] _Rasor_ be dare, Matam.

_Lady Fan._ That's fortunate. Well, I'll leave you together. And if you find him stubborn, _Madamoiselle_--hark you--don't refuse him a few little reasonable Liberties to put him into Humour.

Madam. _Laissez moy faire._

[_Exit ~Lady~ Fancyfull._

[_~Rasor~ peeps in; and seeing Lady ~Fancyfull~ gone, runs to ~Madamoiselle~, takes her about the Neck, and kisses her._

_Madam._ How now, Confidence?

_Rasor._ How now, Modesty!

_Madam._ Who make you so familiar, Sirrah?

_Rasor._ My Impudence, Hussy.

_Madam._ Stand off, Rogue-Face.

_Rasor._ Ah----_Madamoiselle_----great News at our House.

_Madam._ Why, vat be de matter?

_Rasor._ The Matter?--Why, Uptails All's the Matter.

Madam. _Tu te mocque de moy._

_Rasor._ Now do you long to know the Particulars: The Time when--The Place where--The Manner how. But I don't tell you a Word more.

_Madam._ Nay, den dou kill me, _Rasor_.

_Rasor._ Come, kiss me, then.

[_Clapping his Hands behind him._

_Madam._ Nay, pridee tell me.

_Rasor._ Good by t' ye.

[_Going._

_Madam._ Hold, hold: I will kiss dee.

[_Kissing him._

_Rasor._ So, that's civil: Why, now, my pretty Poll, my Goldfinch, my little Waterwagtail----you must know, that----Come, kiss me again.

_Madam._ I won't kiss de no more.

_Rasor._ Good by t' ye.

[_Going._

Madam. _Doucement! ~Derre~: es tu content?_

[_Kissing him._

_Rasor._ So: Now I'll tell thee all. Why, the News is, That Cuckoldom in Folio is newly printed; and Matrimony in Quarto is just going into the Press. Will you buy any Books, _Madamoiselle_?

Madam. _Tu parle comme un Libraire_; de Devil no understand dee.

_Rasor._ Why, then, that I may make myself intelligible to a Waiting-Woman, I'll speak like a Valet de Chambre. My Lady has cuckolded my Master.

Madam. _Bon._

_Rasor._ Which we take very ill from her Hands, I can tell her that. We can't yet prove Matter of Fact upon her.

Madam. _N'importe._

_Rasor._ But we can prove, that Matter of Fact had like to have been upon her.

Madam. _Ouy da._

_Rasor._ For we have such bloody Circumstances--

Madam. Sans doute.

_Rasor._ That any Man of Parts may draw tickling Conclusions from 'em.

Madam. _Fort bien._

_Rasor._ We found a couple of tight, well-built Gentlemen stufft into her Ladyship's Closet.

Madam. _Le Diable!_

_Rasor._ And I, in my particular Person, have discovered a most damnable Plot, how to persuade my poor Master, that all this Hide and Seek, this _Will_ in the _Whisp_, has no other meaning than a Christian Marriage for sweet Mrs. _Belinda_.

Madam. _Une Mariage?----Ah les Droles!_

_Rasor._ Don't you interrupt me, Hussy; 'tis agreed, I say. And my innocent Lady, to wriggle herself out at the Back-door of the Business, turns Marriage-Bawd to her Niece, and resolves to deliver up her fair Body to be tumbled and mumbled by that young liquorish Whipster, _Heartfree_. Now are you satisfy'd?

_Madam._ No.

_Rasor._ Right Woman; always gaping for more.

_Madam._ Dis be all, den, dat dou know?

_Rasor._ All? Aye, and a great deal, too, I think.

_Madam._ Dou be Fool, dou know noting. _Ecoute, mon pauvre_ Rasor. Dou sees des two Eyes?--Des two Eyes have see de Devil.

_Rasor._ The Woman's mad.

_Madam._ In _Spring-Garden_, dat Rogue _Constant_ meet dy Lady.

Rasor. _Bon._

_Madam._----I'll tell dee no more.

_Rasor._ Nay, pr'ythee, my Swan.

_Madam._ Come, kiss me den.

[_Clapping her Hands behind her as he did before._

_Rasor._ I won't kiss you, not I.

_Madam._ Adieu.

[_Going._

_Rasor._ Hold----Now proceed.

[_Gives her a hearty Kiss._

Madam. _A ça_----I hide myself in one cunning Place, where I hear all, and see all. First, dy drunken Master come _mal a propos_; but de Sot no know his own dear Wife, so he leave her to her Sport--Den de Game begin. De Lover say soft ting: De Lady look upon de Ground. [_As she speaks, ~Rasor~ still acts the Man, and she the Woman._] He take her by de Hand: She turn her Head on oder Way. Den he squeeze very hard: Den she pull----very softly. Den he take her in his Arm: Den she give him leetel pat. Den he kiss her Tettons. Den she say--Pish, nay see. Den he tremble: Den she--sigh. Den he pull her into de Arbour: Den she pinch him.

_Rasor._ Aye, but not so hard, you Baggage, you.

_Madam._ Den he grow bold: She grow weak, he tro her down, _il tombe dessu, le Diable assiste, il emport tout_. [_~Rasor~ struggles with her, as if he would throw her down._] Stand off, Sirrah!

_Rasor._ You have set me a-fire, you Jade, you.

_Madam._ Den go to de River, and quench dy self.

_Rasor._ What an unnatural Harlot 'tis!

_Madam._ _Rasor._

[_Looking languishingly on him._

_Rasor._ _Madamoiselle._

_Madam._ Dou no love me.

_Rasor._ Not love thee?--More than a _Frenchman_ does Soup.

_Madam._ Den dou will refuse nothing dat I bid dee?

_Rasor._ Don't bid me be damn'd, then.

_Madam._ No, only tell dy Master all I have tell dee of dy Laty.

_Rasor._ Why, you little, malicious Strumpet, you, shou'd you like to be serv'd so?

_Madam._ Dou dispute den?--Adieu.

_Rasor._ Hold--But why wilt thou make me such a Rogue, my Dear?

Madam. _Voila un vrai Anglois! Il est amoureux, et cependant il veut raisonner. Va t'en au Diable._

_Rasor._ Hold once more: In hopes thou'lt give me up thy Body, I resign thee my Soul.

Madam. _Bon, ecoute donc_;----If dou fail me----I never see de more----If dou obey me----_Je m'abandonne a toy._ [_She takes him about the Neck, and gives him a smacking Kiss._]

[_Exit ~Madamoiselle~._

_Rasor._ [_Licking his Lips._] Not be a Rogue?----_Amor vincit Omnia._

[_Exit ~Rasor~._

_Enter Lady ~Fancyfull~ and ~Madamoiselle~._

_Lady Fan._ Marry, say ye? Will the two Things marry?

Madam. _On le va faire, Madame._

_Lady Fan._ Look you, _Madamoiselle_--In short, I can't bear it----No; I find I can't--If once I see 'em a-bed together, I shall have ten thousand Thoughts in my Head will make me run distracted. Therefore run and call _Rasor_ back immediately; for something must be done to stop this impertinent Wedding. If I can but defer it four-and-twenty Hours, I'll make such Work about Town, with that little pert Slut's Reputation, he shall as soon marry a Witch.

Madam. [_Aside._] _La voilà bien intentionnée._

[Exeunt.

+SCENE+, _~Constant~'s Lodgings_.

_Enter ~Constant~ and ~Heartfree~._

_Const._ But what dost think will become of this Business?

_Heart._ 'Tis easier to think what will not come on't.

_Const._ What's that?

_Heart._ A Challenge. I know the Knight too well for that; his dear Body will always prevail upon his noble Soul to be quiet.

_Const._ But tho' he dare not challenge me, perhaps he may venture to challenge his Wife.

_Heart._ Not if you whisper him in the Ear, you won't have him do't; and there's no other way left, that I see. For as drunk as he was, he'll remember you and I were where we shou'd not be; and I don't think him quite Blockhead enough yet to be persuaded we were got into his Wife's Closet only to peep into her Prayer-Book.

_Enter a Servant with a Letter._

_Serv._ Sir, here's a Letter; a Porter brought it.

_Const._ O ho, here's Instructions for us.

_Reads:_

_The Accident that has happen'd has touch'd our Invention to the quick. We wou'd fain come off, without your help; but find that's impossible. In a Word, the whole Business must be thrown upon a Matrimonial Intrigue between your Friend and mine. But if the Parties are not fond enough to go quite through with the matter, 'tis sufficient for our Turn, they own the Design. We'll find Pretences enough to break the Match._

Adieu.

----Well, Woman for Invention! How long wou'd my Block-Head have been producing this!----Hey, _Heartfree_? What, musing, Man? Pr'ythee be chearful. What say'st thou, Friend, to this matrimonial Remedy?

_Heart._ Why, I say, 'tis worse than the Disease.

_Const._ Here's a Fellow for you! There's Beauty and Money on her Side, and Love up to the Ears on his: and yet----

_Heart._ And yet, I think, I may reasonably be allow'd to boggle at marrying the Niece, in the very Moment that you are debauching the Aunt.