of prudence, Madam.

M. Yes, I suppose I am an old soul too.

D. He also is for making a wise agreement, or hinting at one, at least.

M. Well, the short and the long I suppose is this: I have not your
consent to marry.

D. Indeed, Madam, you have not my wishes to marry.

M. Let me tell you, that if prudence consists in wishing well to one's
self, I see not but the young flirts are as prudent as the old souls.

D. Dear Madam, would you blame me, if to wish you not to marry Mr.
Antony Harlowe, is to wish well to myself?

M. You are mighty witty. I wish you were as dutiful.

D. I am more dutiful, I hope, than witty; or I should be a fool as well
as a saucebox.

M. Let me be judge of both--Parents are only to live for their
children, let them deserve it or not. That's their dutiful notion!

D. Heaven forbid that I should wish, if there be two interests between
my mother and me, that my mother postpone her own for mine!--or give up
any thing that would add to the real comforts of her life to oblige me!--
Tell me, my dear Mamma, if you think the closing with this proposal will?

M. I say, that ten thousand pounds is such an acquisition to one's
family, that the offer of it deserves a civil return.

D. Not the offer, Madam: the chance only!--if indeed you have a view to
an increase of family, the money may provide--

M. You can't keep within tolerable bounds!--That saucy fleer I cannot
away with--

D. Dearest, dearest Madam, forgive me; but old soul ran in my head
again!--Nay, indeed, and upon my word, I will not be robbed of that
charming smile! And again I kissed her hand.

M. Away, bold creature! Nothing can be so provoking as to be made to
smile when one would choose, and ought, to be angry.

D. But, dear Madam, if it be to be, I presume you won't think of it
before next winter.

M. What now would the pert one be at?

D. Because he only proposes to entertain you with pretty stories of
foreign nations in a winter's evening.--Dearest, dearest Madam, let me
have all the reading of his letter through. I will forgive him all he
says about me.

M. It may be a very difficult thing, perhaps, for a man of the best
sense to write a love-letter that may not be cavilled at.

D. That's because lovers in their letters hit not the medium. They
either write too much nonsense, or too little. But do you call this odd
soul's letter [no more will I call him old soul, if