SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY. Never! the hussy!—when I had set my heart on getting her a title. LORD FOPPINGTON. Now, Sir Tunbelly, that I am untrussed—give me leave to thank thee for the very extraordinary reception I have met with in thy damned, execrable mansion; and at the same time to assure you, that of all the bumpkins and blockheads I have had the misfortune to meek with, thou art the most obstinate and egregious, strike me ugly! SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY. What’s this! I believe you are both rogues alike. LORD FOPPINGTON. No, Sir Tunbelly, thou wilt find to thy unspeakable mortification, that I am the real Lord Foppington, who was to have disgraced myself by an alliance with a clod; and that thou hast matched thy girl to a beggarly younger brother of mine, whose title deeds might be contained in thy tobacco-box. SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY. Puppy! puppy!—I might prevent their being beggars, if I chose it; for I could give ’em as good a rent-roll as your lordship. LORD FOPPINGTON. Ay, old fellow, but you will not do that—for that would be acting like a Christian, and thou art a barbarian, stap my vitals. SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY. Udzookers! now six such words more, and I’ll forgive them directly. LOVELESS. ’Slife, Sir Tunbelly, you should do it, and bless yourself—Ladies, what say you? AMANDA. Good Sir Tunbelly, you must consent. BERINTHIA. Come, you have been young yourself, Sir Tunbelly. SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY. Well then, if I must, I must; but turn—turn that sneering lord out, however, and let me be revenged on somebody. But first look whether I am a barbarian or not; there, children, I join your hands; and when I’m in a better humour, I’ll give you my blessing. LOVELESS. Nobly done, Sir Tunbelly! and we shall see you dance at a grandson’s christening yet. MISS HOYDEN. By goles, though, I don’t understand this! What! an’t I to be a lady after all? only plain Mrs.—What’s my husband’s name, nurse? NURSE. Squire Fashion. MISS HOYDEN. Squire, is he?—Well, that’s better than nothing. LORD FOPPINGTON. [_Aside_.] Now I will put on a philosophic air, and show these people, that it is not possible to put a man of my quality out of countenance.—[_Aloud_.] Dear Tam, since things are fallen out, pr’ythee give me leave to wish thee joy; I do it _de bon coeur_, strike me dumb! You have married into a family of great politeness and uncommon elegance of manners, and your bride appears to be a lady beautiful in person, modest in her deportment, refined in her sentiments, and of nice morality, split my windpipe! MISS HOYDEN. By goles, husband, break his bones if he calls me names! TOM FASHION. Your lordship may keep up your spirits with your grimace, if you please; I shall support mine, by Sir Tunbelly’s favour, with this lady and three thousand pounds a year.