Jac.  Who, I, Sir?  No, no, I am for marrying her out of hand to any reasonable Husband, except a Merchant; for Maids will long, and that’s Probatum est against the prevailing distemper of Longing.  Hitherto I dare answer for her, but Batteries will be made, and I dare not be always responsible for frail Mortality.

Fran.  Well, I have provided her one that I like, but if she be so squeamish, let her fast, with a Murrain to her.

Isa.  Dear Father.

Fran.  Dear me no Dears:  wou’d your old Mother were alive, she wou’d have strapt your Just-au-corps, for puleing after Cavaliers and Nobleman, i’faith, that wou’d she; a Citizen’s Daughter, and would be a Madona—­in good time.

Isa.  Why, Father, the Gentry and Nobility now-a-days frequently marry Citizens Daughters.

Fran.  Come, come, Mistress, I got by the City, and I love and honour the City; I confess ’tis the Fashion now-a-days, if a Citizen get but a little Money, one goes to building Houses, and brick Walls; another must buy an Office for his Son, a third hoists up his Daughter’s Topsail, and flaunts it away, much above her breeding; and these things make so many break, and cause the decay of Trading:  but I am for the honest Dutch way of breeding their Children, according to their Fathers Calling.

Isa.  That’s very hard, because you are a laborious, ill-bred Tradesman, I must be bound to be a mean Citizen’s Wife.

Fran.  Why, what are you better than I, forsooth, that you must be a Lady, and have your Petticoats lac’d four Stories high; wear your false Towers, and cool your self with your Spanish Fan?  Come, come, Baggage, wear me your best Clothes a Sunday, and brush ’em up a Monday Mornings, and follow your Needle all the Week after; that was your good old Mother’s way, and your Grandmother’s before her; and as for the Husband, take no care about it, I have designed it Antonio, and Antonio you are like to wed, or beat the hoof, Gentlewoman, or turn poor Clare, and die a begging Nun, and there’s an end on’t—­see where he comes—­I’ll leave you to ponder upon the business.
          
                                   [Exit.]

    Enter Antonio.  Isabella weeps.

Ant.  What, in Tears, Isabella? what is’t can force that tribute from your Eyes?

Isa.  A Trifle, hardly worth the naming, your self.—­

Ant.  Do I? pray, for what Sin of mine must your fair Eyes be punish’d?

Isa.  For the Sin of your odious Addresses to me, I have told you my mind often enough, methinks your Equals should be fitter for you, and sute more with your Plebeian Humour.

Ant.  My Equals!  ’Tis true, you are fair; but if there be any Inequality in our births, the advantage is on my side.

Isa.  Saucy Impertinent, you shew your City breeding; you understand what’s due to Ladys! you understand your Pen and Ink, how to count your dirty Money, trudge to and fro chaffering of base commodities, and cozening those you deal with, till you sweat and stink again like an o’er heated Cook, faugh, I smell him hither.