_Niece._ If you'll for a little while suspend your curiosity, you shall have the whole history of my amour to this my nuptial day, under the title of the loves of Clerimont and Parthenissa. _Tip._ Then, madam, your portion is in safe hands. _Cler._ Come, come, old gentleman, 'tis in vain to contend; here's honest Mr. Pounce shall be my engineer, and I warrant you we beat you out of all your holds. _Aunt._ What then, is Mr. Pounce a rogue?--He must have some trick, brother, it cannot be; he must have cheated t'other side, for I'm sure he's honest. [_Apart to_ TIPKIN. _Cler. Sen._ Mr. Pounce, all your sister has won of this lady she has honestly put into my hands; and I'll return it her, at this lady's particular request. _Pounce._ And the thousand pounds you promised in your brother's behalf, I'm willing should be hers also. _Cler. Sen._ Then go in, and bring 'em all back to make the best of an ill game; we'll eat the dinner and have a dance together, or we shall transgress all form. _Re-enter_ FAINLOVE, HUMPHRY, _and_ SIR HARRY. _Sir Har._ Well, since you say you are worth something, and the boy has set his heart upon you, I'll have patience till I see further. _Pounce._ Come, come, Sir Harry, you shall find my alliance more considerable than you imagine; the Pounces are a family that will always have money, if there's any in the world--Come, fiddles. [_A Dance here._] _Cler. Sen._ You've seen th' extremes of the domestic life, A son too much confined--too free a wife; By generous bonds you either should restrain, And only on their inclinations gain; Wives to obey must love, children revere, While only slaves are governed by their fear. EPILOGUE. _Spoken by_ MR. ESTCOURT.[101] Britons, who constant war, with factious rage, For liberty against each other wage, From foreign insult save this English stage. No more th' Italian squalling tribe admit, In tongues unknown; 'tis popery in wit.[102] The songs (theirselves confess) from Rome they bring, And 'tis high mass, for ought you know, they sing. Husbands take care, the danger may come nigher, The women say their eunuch is a friar. But is it not a serious ill to see Europe's great arbiters so mean can be; Passive, with an affected joy to sit, Suspend their native taste of manly wit; Neglect their comic humour, tragic rage, For known defects of nature, and of age? Arise, for shame, ye conquering Britons rise, Such unadorned effeminacy despise; Admire (if you will dote on foreign wit) Not what Italians sing, but Romans writ. So shall less works, such as to-night's slight play, At your command with justice die away; Till then forgive your writers, that can't bear You should such very tramontanes appear, The nations which contemn you to revere.