Char. Nay, to be Robb’d, or have one’s Throat Cut is not much—­

Sir Fran. What’s that, Sirrah? wou’d ye Rob me, or Cut my Throat, ye Rogue?

Char. Heaven forbid, Sir,—­I said no such thing.

Sir Fran. Mercy on me!  What a Plague it is to have a Son of One and Twenty, who wants to Elbow one out of one’s Life, to Edge himself into the Estate.

  Enter Marplot_._

Marpl. Egad he’s here—­I was afraid I had lost him:  His Secret cou’d not be with his Father, his Wants are Publick there—­Guardian,—­your Servant Charles, I know by that sorrowful Countenance of thine.  The old Man’s Fist is as close as his strong Box—­But I’ll help thee—­

Sir Fran. So:  Here’s another extravagant Coxcomb, that will spend his Fortune before he comes to’t; but he shall pay swinging Interest, and so let the Fool go on—­Well, what do’s Necessity bring you too, Sir?

Marpl. You have hit it, Guardian—­I want a Hundred Pound.

Sir Fran. For what?

Marpl. Po’gh, for a Hundred Things, I can’t for my Life tell you for what.

Char. Sir, I suppose I have received all the Answer I am like to have.

Marpl. Oh, the Devil, if he gets out before me, I shall lose him agen.

Sir Fran. Ay, Sir, and you may be marching as soon as you please—­I must see a Change in your Temper e’er you find one in mine.

Marpl. Pray, Sir, dispatch me; the Money, Sir, I’m in mighty haste.

Sir Fran. Fool, take this and go to the Cashier; I sha’n’t be long plagu’d with thee.
    (Gives him a Note.

Marpl. Devil take the Cashier, I shall certainly have Charles gone before I come back agen.
    (Runs out.

Char. Well, Sir, I take my Leave—­But remember, you Expose an only Son to all the Miseries of wretched Poverty, which too often lays the Plan for Scenes of Mischief.

Sir Fran. Stay, Charles, I have a sudden Thought come into my Head, may prove to thy Advantage.

Char. Ha, does he Relent?

Sir Fran. My Lady Wrinkle, worth Forty Thousand Pound, sets up for a Handsome young Husband; she prais’d thee t’other Day; tho’ the Match-makers can get Twenty Guinea’s for a sight of her, I can introduce thee for nothing.

Char. My Lady Wrinkle, Sir, why she has but one Eye.

Sir Fran. Then she’ll see but half your Extravagance, Sir.

Char. Condemn me to such a piece of Deformity!  Toothless, Dirty, Wry-neck’d, Hunch-back’d Hag.

Sir Fran. Hunch-back’d! so much the better, then she has a Rest for her Misfortunes; for thou wilt Load her swingingly.  Now I warrant you think, this is no Offer of a Father; Forty Thousand Pound is nothing with you.