no more, for I prefer
Sir _Francis_ for a Husband before all the Fops in the Universe.

_Marpl._ Oh Lord, Oh Lord! She's bewitch'd, that's certain; Here's a
Husband for Eighteen--Here's a Shape--Here's Bones ratling in a Leathern
Bag. (_Turning Sir _Francis_ about._) Here's Buckram, and Canvass, to
scrub you to Repentance.

Sir _Fran._ Sirrah, my Cane shall teach you Repentance presently.

_Marpl._ No faith, I have felt its Twin-Brother from just such a
wither'd Hand too lately.

_Miran._ One thing more, advise him to keep from the Garden Gate on the
left Hand; for if he dares to saunter there, about the Hour of Eight, as
he used to do, he shall be saluted with a Pistol or a Blunderbuss.

_Sir Fran._ Oh monstrous! why _Chargee_; did he use to come to the
Garden Gate?

_Miran._ The Gardner describ'd just such another Man that always watch'd
his coming out, and fain wou'd have bribed him for his Entrance--tell
him he shall find a warm Reception if he comes this Night.

_Marpl._ Pistols and Blunderbusses! Egad, a warm Reception indeed; I
shall take care to inform him of your Kindness, and advise him to keep
farther off.

_Miran._ I hope he will understand my Meaning better, than to follow
your Advice.
(_Aside._

Sir _Fran._ Thou hast sign'd, seal'd, and ta'en Possession of my Heart;
for ever, _Chargee_, Ha, ha, ha; and for you, Mr. Sauce-box, let me have
no more of your Messages, if ever you design to inherit your Estate,
Gentleman.

_Marpl._ Why there 'tis now. Sure I shall be out of your Clutches one
Day.--Well, _Guardian_, I say no more; but if you be not as errant a
Cuckold, as e're drove Bargain upon the Exchange, or paid Attendance to
a Court; I am the Son of a Whetstone; and so your humble Servant.
(_Exit._

_Miran._ Don't forget the Message; Ha, ha.

Sir _Fran._ I am so provok'd!--'tis well he's gone.

_Miran._ Oh mind him not, _Gardee_, but let's sign Articles, and then--

Sir _Fran._ And then--Adod, I believe I am Metamorphos'd; my Pulse beats
high, and my Blood boils, methinks--
(_Kissing and Hugging her._

_Miran._ Oh fye, _Gardee_, be not so violent; Consider the Market lasts
all the Year--Well, I'll in and see if the Lawyer be come, you'll
follow.
(_Exit._

Sir _Fran._ Ay, to the World's End, my Dear. Well, _Franck_, thou art a
lucky Fellow in thy old Age, to have such a delicate Morsel, and Thirty
Thousand Pound in love with thee; I shall be the Envy of Batchelors, the