his Lady's
Pardon if I have intruded.

Sir _Fran._ Ay, Ay, ask her Pardon and her Blessing too, if you expect
any thing from me.

_Miran._ I believe yours, Sir _Francis_, in a Purse of Guinea's wou'd be
more material. Your Son may have Business with you, I'll retire.

Sir _Fran._ I guess his Business, but I'll dispatch him, I expect the
Knight every Minute: You'll be in Readiness.

_Miran._ Certainly! my Expectation is more upon the wing than yours, old
Gentleman.
[_Exit._

Sir _Fran._ Well, Sir!

_Char._ Nay, it is very Ill, Sir; my Circumstances are, I'm sure.

Sir _Fran,_ And what's that to me, Sir: Your Management shou'd have made
them better.

_Char._ If you please to intrust me with the Management of my Estate, I
shall endeavour it, Sir.

Sir _Fran._ What to set upon a Card, and buy a Lady's Favour at the
Price of a Thousand Pieces, to Rig out an Equipage for a Wench, or by
your Carelessness enrich your Steward to fine for Sheriff, or put up for
Parliament-Man.

_Char._ I hope I shou'd not spend it this way: However, I ask only for
what my Uncle left me; Your's you may dispose of as you please, Sir.

Sir _Fran._ That I shall, out of your Reach, I assure you, Sir. Adod
these young Fellows think old Men get Estates for nothing but them to
squander away, in Dicing, Wenching, Drinking, Dressing, and so forth.

_Char._ I think I was born a Gentleman, Sir; I'm sure my Uncle bred me
like one.

Sir _Fran._ From which you wou'd infer, Sir, that Gaming, Whoring, and
the Pox, are Requisits to a Gentleman.

_Char._ Monstrous! when I wou'd ask him only for a Support, he falls
into these unmannerly Reproaches; I must, tho' against my Will, employ
Invention, and by Stratagem relieve my self.
(_Aside._

Sir _Fran._ Sirrah, what is it you mutter, Sirrah, ha? (_Holds up his
Cane._) I say, you sha'n't have a Groat out of my Hands till I
Please--and may be I'll never Please, and what's that to you?

_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