_Coup._ Without the Devil's Aid, I warrant thee. Thy Brother's Face not one of the Family ever saw; the whole Business has been manag'd by me, and all the Letters go thro' my Hands: The last that was writ to Sir _Tunbelly Clumsey_ (for that's the old Gentleman's Name) was to tell him, his Lordship would be down in a Fortnight to consummate. Now you shall go away immediately; pretend you writ that letter only to have the romantick Pleasure of surprizing your Mistress; fall desperately in Love, as soon as you see her; make that your Plea for marrying her immediately; and when the fatigue of the Wedding-night's over, you shall send me a swinging Purse of Gold, you Dog you. _Young Fash._ I'gad, old Dad, I'll put my Hand in thy Bosom now---- _Coup._ Ah, you young hot lusty Thief, let me muzzle you---- [_Kissing._ Sirrah, let me muzzle you. _Young Fash._ 'Psha, the old Letcher---- [Aside. _Coup._ Well; I'll warrant thou hast not a Farthing of Money in thy Pocket now; no, one may see it in thy Face---- _Young Fash._ Not a Sous, by _Jupiter_. _Coup._ Must I advance then?--Well, Sirrah, be at my Lodgings in half an Hour, and I'll see what may be done; we'll sign and seal, and eat a Pullet, and when I have given thee some farther Instructions, thou shalt hoist Sail and be gone----[_Kissing._]----T'other Buss, and so adieu. _Young Fash._ Um, 'psha. _Coup._ Ah; you young warm Dog, you; what a delicious Night will the Bride have on't! [_Exit Coupler._ _Young Fash._ So, _Lory_; Providence, thou seest, at last takes care of Men of Merit: We are in a fair way to be great People. _Lo._ Ay, Sir, if the Devil don't step between the Cup and the Lip, as he uses to do. _Young Fash._ Why, faith, he has play'd me many a damn'd Trick to spoil my Fortune, and, I'gad, I'm almost afraid he's at work about it again now; but if I should tell thee how, thou'dst wonder at me. _Lo._ Indeed, Sir, I shou'd not. _Young Fash._ How dost know? _Lo._ Because, Sir, I have wonder'd at you so often, I can wonder at you no more. _Young Fash._ No! what wouldst thou say if a Qualm of Conscience should spoil my Design? _Lo._ I wou'd eat my Words, and wonder more than ever. _Young Fash._ Why, faith, _Lory_, tho' I am a young Rake-hell, and have play'd many a Roguish Trick; this is so full grown a Cheat, I find I must take pains to come up to't; I have Scruples---- _Lo._ They are strong Symptoms of Death; if you find they increase, pray, Sir, make your Will.