Forty Thousand Pound! Out of my Doors, I say, without
Reply.

(_Exit _Char_._

_Enter Servant._

_Serv._ One Sir _George Airy_ enquires for you, Sir.

_Enter _Marplot_ Running._

_Marpl._. Ha? gone! Is _Charles_ gone, Guardian?

Sir _Fran._ Yes; and I desire your wise Worship to walk after him.

_Marpl._ Nay, Egad, I shall Run, I tell you but that. Ah, Pox of the
Cashier for detaining me so long, where the Devil shall I find him now.
I shall certainly lose this Secret.
(_Exit, hastily._

Sir _Fran._ What is the Fellow distracted?--Desire Sir _George_ to walk
up--Now for a Tryal of Skill that will make me Happy, and him a Fool:
Ha, ha, ha, in my Mind he looks like an Ass already.

_Enter Sir _George_._

Sir _Fran._ Well, Sir _George_, Dee ye hold in the same Mind? or wou'd
you Capitulate? Ha, ha, ha: Look, here are the Guinea's, (_Chinks
them._) Ha, ha, ha.

Sir _Geo._ Not if they were twice the Sum, Sir _Francis_: Therefore be
brief, call in the Lady, and take your Post--if she's a Woman, and, not
seduc'd by Witchcraft to this old Rogue, I'll make his Heart ake; for if
she has but one Grain of Inclination about her, I'll vary a Thousand
Shapes, but find it.
(_Aside._

_Enter _Mirand_._

Sir _Fran._ Agreed--_Miranda._ There Sir _George_, try your Fortune,
(_Takes out his Watch._)

Sir _Geo._
So from the Eastern Chambers breaks the Sun,
Dispels the Clouds, and gilds the Vales below.
(_Salutes her._

Sir _Fran._ Hold, Sir, Kissing was not in our Agreement.

Sir _Geo._ Oh! That's by way of Prologue:--Prithee, Old Mammon, to thy
Post.

Sir _Fran._ Well, young _Timon_, 'tis now 4 exactly; one Hour, remember
is your utmost Limit, not a Minute more.
(_Retires to the bottom of
the Stage._

Sir _Geo._ Madam, whether you will Excuse or Blame my Love, the Author
of this rash Proceeding depends upon your Pleasure, as also the Life of
your Admirer; your sparkling Eyes speak a Heart susceptible of Love;
your Vivacity a Soul too delicate to admit the Embraces of decay'd
Mortality.

_Miran._ (_Aside._) Oh, that I durst speak--

Sir _Geo._ Shake off this Tyrant _Guardian_'s Yoke, assume your self,
and dash his bold aspiring Hopes; the Deity of his Desires, is Avarice;
a Heretick in Love, and ought to be banish'd by the Queen of Beauty.
See, Madam, a faithful Servant kneels and begs to be admitted in the
Number of your Slaves.
(Miranda _gives him her Hand to Raise him._