Sir _Fran._ Ay, Ay, ask her Pardon and her Blessing too, if you expect any thing from me. _Miran._ I believe yours, Sir _Francis_, in a Purse of Guinea's wou'd be more material. Your Son may have Business with you, I'll retire. Sir _Fran._ I guess his Business, but I'll dispatch him, I expect the Knight every Minute: You'll be in Readiness. _Miran._ Certainly! my Expectation is more upon the wing than yours, old Gentleman. [_Exit._ Sir _Fran._ Well, Sir! _Char._ Nay, it is very Ill, Sir; my Circumstances are, I'm sure. Sir _Fran,_ And what's that to me, Sir: Your Management shou'd have made them better. _Char._ If you please to intrust me with the Management of my Estate, I shall endeavour it, Sir. Sir _Fran._ What to set upon a Card, and buy a Lady's Favour at the Price of a Thousand Pieces, to Rig out an Equipage for a Wench, or by your Carelessness enrich your Steward to fine for Sheriff, or put up for Parliament-Man. _Char._ I hope I shou'd not spend it this way: However, I ask only for what my Uncle left me; Your's you may dispose of as you please, Sir. Sir _Fran._ That I shall, out of your Reach, I assure you, Sir. Adod these young Fellows think old Men get Estates for nothing but them to squander away, in Dicing, Wenching, Drinking, Dressing, and so forth. _Char._ I think I was born a Gentleman, Sir; I'm sure my Uncle bred me like one. Sir _Fran._ From which you wou'd infer, Sir, that Gaming, Whoring, and the Pox, are Requisits to a Gentleman. _Char._ Monstrous! when I wou'd ask him only for a Support, he falls into these unmannerly Reproaches; I must, tho' against my Will, employ Invention, and by Stratagem relieve my self. (_Aside._ Sir _Fran._ Sirrah, what is it you mutter, Sirrah, ha? (_Holds up his Cane._) I say, you sha'n't have a Groat out of my Hands till I Please--and may be I'll never Please, and what's that to you? _Char._ Nay, to be Robb'd, or have one's Throat Cut is not much-- Sir _Fran._ What's that, Sirrah? wou'd ye Rob me, or Cut my Throat, ye Rogue? _Char._ Heaven forbid, Sir,--I said no such thing. Sir _Fran._ Mercy on me! What a Plague it is to have a Son of One and Twenty, who wants to Elbow one out of one's Life, to Edge himself into the Estate. _Enter _Marplot_._ _Marpl._ Egad he's here--I was afraid I had lost him: His Secret cou'd not be with his Father, his Wants are Publick there--Guardian,--your Servant _Charles_, I know by that sorrowful Countenance of thine. The old Man's Fist is as close as his strong Box--But I'll help thee-- Sir _Fran._ So: Here's another extravagant Coxcomb, that will spend his Fortune before he comes to't; but he shall pay swinging Interest, and so let the Fool go on--Well, what do's Necessity bring you too, Sir? _Marpl._ You have hit it, Guardian--I want a Hundred Pound. Sir _Fran._ For what? _Marpl._ Po'gh, for a Hundred Things, I can't for my Life tell you for what. _Char._ Sir, I suppose I have received all the Answer I am like to have.