Sir _Fran._ Compose the devil, Madam! why do you consider what a hundred pound a day comes to in a year? Lady _Wrong._ My life, if I account with you from one day to another, that's really all my head is able to bear at a time----But I'll tell you what I consider----I consider that my advice has got you a thousand pound a year this morning----That now methinks you might consider, Sir. Sir _Fran._ A thousand a year? wounds, madam, but I have not touch'd a penny of it yet! _Man._ Nor ever will, I'll answer for him. [_Aside._ _Enter Squire ~Richard~._ Squ. _Rich._ Feyther an you doan't come quickly, the meat will be coal'd: and I'd fain pick a bit with you. Lady _Wrong._ Bless me, Sir _Francis!_ you are not going to sup by yourself! Sir _Fran._ No, but I am going to dine by myself, and that's pretty near the matter, Madam. Lady _Wrong._ Had not you as good stay a little, my dear? we shall all eat in half an hour; and I was thinking to ask my cousin _Manly_ to take a family morsel with us. Sir _Fran._ Nay, for my cousin's good company, I don't care if I ride a day's journey without baiting. _Man._ By no means, Sir _Francis_. I am going upon a little business. Sir _Fran._ Well, Sir, I know you don't love compliments. _Man._ You'll excuse me, Madam---- Lady _Wrong._ Since you have business, Sir---- [_Exit ~Manly~._ _Enter Mrs. ~Motherly~._ O, Mrs. _Motherly_! you were saying this morning, you had some very fine lace to shew me----can't I see it now? [_Sir ~Francis~ stares._ _Moth._ Why, really Madam, I had made a sort of a promise to let the Countess of _Nicely_ have the first sight of it for the birth-day: but your Ladyship---- Lady _Wrong._ O! I die if I don't see it before her. Squ. _Rich._ Woan't you goa; Feyther? } } Sir _Fran._ Waunds! lad, I shall ha' noa } _Apart._ stomach at this rate! } _Moth._ Well, Madam, though I say it, 'tis the sweetest pattern that ever came over----and for fineness----no cobweb comes up to it! Sir _Fran._ Ods guts and gizard, Madam! lace as fine as a cobweb! why, what the devil's that to cost now? _Moth._ Nay, Sir _Francis_ does not like of it, Madam---- Lady _Wrong._ He like it! dear Mrs. Motherly, he is not to wear it. Sir _Fran._ Flesh, Madam, but I suppose I am to pay for it. Lady _Wrong._ No doubt on't! think of your thousand a year, and who got it you, go! eat your dinner, and be thankful, go. [_Driving him to the door._] Come, Mrs. _Motherly_. [_Exit Lady ~Wronghead~ with Mrs. ~Motherly~._