_Ber._ O, a Woman can do a great deal, if once she sets her mind to it. Therefore pray don't stand trifling any longer, and teasing yourself with this and that, and your Love and your Virtue, and I know not what. But resolve to hold up your Head, get a tiptoe, and look over them all; for to my certain knowledge your husband is a pickering elsewhere. _Aman._ You are sure on't? _Ber._ Positively, he fell in love at the Play. _Aman._ Right, the very same; do you know the ugly thing? _Ber._ Yes, I know her well enough; but she's no such ugly thing, neither. _Aman._ Is she very handsome? _Ber._ Truly I think so. _Aman._ Hey-ho! _Ber._ What do you sigh for now? _Aman._ Oh my Heart! _Ber._ [_Aside._] Only the Pangs of Nature! she's in Labour of her Love; Heaven send her a quick Delivery! I'm sure she has a good Midwife. _Aman._ I'm very ill, I must go to my Chamber; Dear _Berinthia_, don't leave me a Moment. _Ber._ No, don't fear. [_Aside._] I'll see you safe brought-to-bed, I'll warrant you. [_Exeunt, ~Amanda~ leaning upon ~Berinthia~._ +SCENE+, _A Country-House_. _Enter ~Young~ Fashion and ~Lory~._ _Young Fash._ So, here's our Inheritance, _Lory_, if we can but get into Possession. But, methinks, the Seat of our Family looks like _Noah_'s Ark, as if the chief part on't were design'd for the Fowls of the Air, and the Beasts of the Field. _Lo._ Pray, Sir, don't let your Head run upon the Orders of Building here; get but the Heiress, let the Devil take the House. _Young Fash._ Get but the House, let the Devil take the Heiress, I say; at least if she be as old _Coupler_ describes her. But come, we have no time to squander. Knock at the Door. [Lory _knocks two or three times._] What the Devil, have they got no Ears in this House? Knock harder. _Lo._ I'gad, Sir, this will prove some inchanted Castle; we shall have the Giant come out by and by with his Club, and beat our Brains out. [_Knocks again._ _Young Fash._ Hush! they come. _From within._] Who is there? _Lo._ Open the Door and see: Is that your Country Breeding? _Within._ Ay, but two Words to a Bargain: _Tummus_, is the Blunderbuss prim'd? _Young Fash._ Oons, give 'em good Words, _Lory_; we shall be shot here a Fortune-catching. _Lo._ I'gad, Sir, I think y'are in the right on't. Ho, Mr. What d'ye-call-um.--[_Servant appears at the Window with a Blunderbuss._] Weal naw, what's yar Business? _Young Fash._ Nothing, Sir, but to wait upon Sir _Tunbelly_, with your leave. _Ser._ To weat upon Sir _Tunbelly_? Why, you'll find that's just as Sir _Tunbelly_ pleases. _Young Fash._ But will you do me the Favour, Sir, to know whether Sir _Tunbelly_ pleases or not?