Volume Ii Part 60 (1/2)

Sir _Char_. Ah, Madam, I am come--

Sir _Anth_. To shew your self a c.o.xcomb.

L. _Gal_. To tire me with Discourses of your Pa.s.sion-- Fie, how this Curl fits!

[Looking in the Gla.s.s.

Sir _Char_. No, you shall hear no more of that ungrateful Subject.

Sir _Anth_. Son of a Wh.o.r.e, hear no more of Love, d.a.m.n'd Rogue! Madam, by George, he lyes; he does come to speak of Love, and make Love, and to do Love, and all for Love--Not come to speak of Love, with a Pox! Owns, Sir, behave your self like a Man; be impudent, be saucy, forward, bold, touzing, and leud, d'ye hear, or I'll beat thee before her: why, what a Pox! [_Aside to him, he minds it not_.

Sir _Char_. Finding my Hopes quite lost in your unequal Favours to young _Wilding_, I'm quitting of the Town.

L. _Gal_. You will do well to do so--lay by that Necklace, I'll wear Pearl to day. [_To_ Clos.

Sir _Anth_. Confounded Blockhead!--by George, he lyes again, Madam. A Dog, I'll disinherit him. [_Aside_.] He quit the Town, Madam! no, not whilst your Ladys.h.i.+p is in it, to my Knowledge. He'll live in the Town, nay, in the Street where you live; nay, in the House; nay, in the very Bed, by George; I've heard him a thousand times swear it. Swear it now, Sirrah: look, look, how he stands now! Why, dear _Charles_, good Boy, swear a little, ruffle her, and swear, d.a.m.n it, she shall have none but thee. [_Aside to him_.] Why, you little think, Madam, that this Nephew of mine is one of the maddest Fellows in all Devons.h.i.+re.

L. _Gal_. Wou'd I cou'd see't, Sir.

Sir _Anth_. See't! look ye there, ye Rogue--Why, 'tis all his Fault, Madam. He's seldom sober; then he has a dozen Wenches in pay, that he may with the more Authority break their Windows. There's never a Maid within forty Miles of Meriwill-Hall to work a Miracle on, but all are Mothers.

He's a hopeful Youth, I'll say that for him.

Sir _Char_. How I have lov'd you, my Despairs shall witness: for I will die to purchase your Content.

[_She rises_.

Sir _Anth_. Die, a d.a.m.n'd Rogue! Ay, ay, I'll disinherit him: A Dog, die, with a Pox! No, he'll be hang'd first, Madam.

Sir _Char_. And sure you'll pity me when I'm dead.

Sir _Anth_. A curse on him; pity, with a Pox. I'll give him ne'er a Souse.

L. _Gal_. Give me that Essence-bottle. [_To_ Clos.

Sir _Char_. But for a Recompence of all my Sufferings--

L. _Gal_. Sprinkle my Handkerchief with Tuberose. [_To_ Clos.

Sir _Char_. I beg a Favour you'd afford a Stranger.

L. _Gal_. Sooner, perhaps. What Jewel's that? [_To_ Clos.

_Clos_. One Sir _Charles Merwill_--

L. _Gal_. Sent, and you receiv'd without my Order!

No wonder that he looks so scurvily.

Give him the Trifle back to mend his Humour.

Sir _Anth_. I thank you, Madam, for that Reprimand. Look in that Gla.s.s, Sir, and admire that sneaking c.o.xcomb's Countenance of yours: a pox on him, he's past Grace, lost, gone: not a Souse, not a Groat; good b'ye to you, Sir. Madam, I beg your Pardon; the next time I come a wooing, it shall be for my self, Madam, and I have something that will justify it too; but as for this Fellow, if your Ladys.h.i.+p have e'er a small Page at leisure, I desire he may have Order to kick him down Stairs. A d.a.m.n'd Rogue, to be civil now, when he shou'd have behav'd himself handsomely!

Not an Acre, not a s.h.i.+lling--buy Sir Softhead.

[_Going out meets Wild, and returns_.]