justice to suppose I
shall not be basely negligent as a husband,

_Sir Simon._ Frank, you're a fool; and----

_Enter a SERVANT._

Well, sir?

_Serv._ A person, Sir Simon, says he wishes to see you on very
urgent business.

_Sir Simon._ And I have very urgent business, just now, with my
steward. Who is the person? How did he come?

_Serv._ On foot, Sir Simon.

_Sir Simon._ Oh, let him wait. [_Exit SERVANT._

At all events, I can't see this person for these two hours.--I wish
you would see him for me.

_Frank._ Certainly, sir,--any thing is refuge to me, now, from the
subject of matrimony. [_Aside, and going._

_Sir Simon._ But a word before you go. Damn it, my dear lad, why
can't you perceive I am labouring this marriage for your good? We
shall ennoble the Rochdales:--for, though my father,--your
grandfather,--did some service in elections (_that_ made him a
baronet), amassed property, and bought lands, and so on, yet, your
great grandfather--Come here----your great grandfather was a miller.
[_Half whispering._

_Frank._ [_Smiling._] I shall not respect his memory less, sir, for
knowing his occupation.

_Sir Simon._ But the world will, you blockhead: and, for your sake,
for the sake of our posterity, I would cross the cart breed, as much
as possible, by blood.

_Frank._ Is that of consequence, sir?

_Sir Simon._ Isn't it the common policy? and the necessities of your
boasters of pedigree produce a thousand intermarriages with people
of no pedigree at all;--till, at last, we so jumble a genealogy,
that, if the devil himself would pluck knowledge from the family
tree, he could hardly find out the original fruit.
[_Exeunt severally._

_Enter TOM SHUFFLETON, from the Park, following LADY CAROLINE
BRAYMORE._

_Shuff._ "The time is come for Iphigene to find,
"The miracle she wrought upon my mind;"

_Lady Car._ Don't talk to me.

_Shuff._ "For, now, by love, by force she shall be mine,
"Or death, if force should fail, shall finish my design."

_Lady Car._ I wish you would finish your nonsense.

_Shuff._ Nonsense:--'tis poetry; somebody told me 'twas written by
Dryden.

_Lady Car._ Perhaps so;----but all poetry is nonsense.

_Shuff._ Hear me, then, in prose.

_Lady Car._ Psha!--that's worse.

_Shuff._ Then I must exp