_Cler. Sen._ Then kneel, and weep no more, my fairest--my reconciled! Be so in a moment, for know I cannot (without wringing my own heart) give you the least compunction. Be in humour. It shall be your own fault if ever there's a serious word more on this subject. _Mrs. Cler._ I must correct every idea that rises in my mind, and learn every gesture of my body anew--I detest the thing I was. _Cler. Sen._ No, no; you must not do so. Our joy and grief, honour and reproach, are the same; you must slide out of your foppery by degrees, so that it may appear your own act. _Mrs. Cler._ But this wench! _Cler. Sen._ She is already out of your way; you shall see the catastrophe of her fate yourself. But still keep up the fine lady till we go out of town; you may return to it with as decent airs as you please.--And now I have shown you your error, I'm in so good humour as to repeat you a couplet on the occasion-- They only who gain minds, true laurels wear: 'Tis less to conquer, than convince, the fair. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II.--TIPKIN'S _House._ _Enter_ POUNCE _with papers; a table, chairs, pen, ink, and paper._ _Pounce._ 'Tis a delight to gall these old rascals, and set 'em at variance about stakes, which I know neither of 'em will ever have possession of. _Enter_ TIPKIN _and_ SIR HARRY. _Tip._ Do you design, Sir Harry, that they shall have an estate in their own hands, and keep house themselves, poor things? _Sir Har._ No, no, sir, I know better; they shall go down into the country, and live with me, not touch a farthing of money; but, having all things necessary provided, they shall go tame about the house, and breed. _Tip._ Well, Sir Harry, then considering that all human things are subject to change, it behoves every man that has a just sense of mortality to take care of his money. _Sir Har._ I don't know what you mean, brother. What do you drive at, brother? _Tip._ This instrument is executed by you, your son, and my niece, which discharges me of all retrospects. _Sir Har._ It is confessed, brother; but what then? _Tip._ All that remains is, that you pay me for the young lady's twelve years' board, as also all other charges, as wearing-apparel, &c. _Sir Har._ What is this you say? Did I give you my discharge from all retrospects, as you call it? and after all do you come with this and t'other, and all that? I find you are--I tell you, sir, to your face--I find you are---- _Tip._ I find too what you are, Sir Harry. _Sir Har._ What am I, sir? What am I? _Tip._ Why, sir, you are angry. _Sir Har._ Sir, I scorn your words; I am not angry. Mr. Pounce is my witness; I am as gentle as a lamb. Would it not make any flesh alive angry, to see a close hunks come after all with a demand of---- _Tip._ Mr. Pounce, pray inform Sir Harry in this point.