_Old K._ Let me but hear thou liv'st by thy wits once Thou shalt have any thing, thou'rt none of mine else, Then why should I take care for thee? _Witty._ 'Thank your bounty. [_Exit._ _Old K._ So wealth love me, and long life, I beseech it, As I do love the man that lives by his wits, He comes so near my nature; I'm grown old now, And even arriv'd at my last cheat I fear me, But 'twill make shift to bury me, by day-light too, And discharge all my Legacies, 'tis so wealthy, And never trouble any Interest money: I've yet a Neece to wed, over whose steps I have plac'd a trusty watchful Guardianess, For fear some poor Earl steal her, 't has been threat'ned, To redeem mortgag'd Land, but he shall miss on't; To prevent which, I have sought out a match for her, _Fop_ of _Fop-Hall_, he writes himself, I take it, The antient'st _Fop_ in _England_, with whom I've privately Compounded for the third part of her portion. _Enter Sir_ Gregory Fop, _and_ Cuningham. And she seems pleas'd, so two parts rest with me, He's come; Sir _Gregory_, welcome, what's he Sir? _Sir Greg._ Young _Cuningam_, a _Norfolk_ Gentleman, One that has liv'd upon the _Fops_, my kindred, Ever since my remembrance; he's a wit indeed, And we all strive to have him, nay, 'tis certain Some of our name has gone to Law for him; Now 'tis my turn to keep him, and indeed He's plaguy chargeable, as all your wits are, But I will give him over when I list, I ha' us'd wits so before. _Old K._ I hope when y'are married Sir, you'll shake him off. _Sir Greg._ Why what do you take me to be, old Fatheri'Law that shall be, do you think I'll have any of the _Wits_ hang upon me, after I am married once? none of my kindred ever had before me; but where's this Neece? is't a fashion in _London_, to marry a woman and never see her? _Old K._ Excuse the niceness, Sir, that care's your frien[d], Perhaps had she been seen, you had never seen her; There's many a _spent thing_ call'd, _and't like your honor_, That lies in wait for her, at first snap she's a Countess, Drawn with six Mares through _Fleetstreet_, and a Coachman, Sitting bare-headed to their _Flanders_ buttocks, This whets him on. _Sir Greg._ Pray let's clap up the business, Sir, I long to see her, are you sure you have her, Is she not there already[?] Hark, oh hark. _Old K._ How now, what's that Sir? _Sir Greg._ Every Caroach goes by, Goes ev'n to th' heart of me.