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 Canvass, 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._