BOY. 'Tis directed to your worship. SIR PAUL. Well, well, my lady reads all letters first. Child, do so no more; d'ye hear, Tim. BOY. No, and please you. SCENE VIII. CARELESS, SIR PAUL, LADY PLYANT. SIR PAUL. A humour of my wife's: you know women have little fancies. But as I was telling you, Mr. Careless, if it were not for one thing, I should think myself the happiest man in the world; indeed that touches me near, very near. CARE. What can that be, Sir Paul? SIR PAUL. Why, I have, I thank heaven, a very plentiful fortune, a good estate in the country, some houses in town, and some money, a pretty tolerable personal estate; and it is a great grief to me, indeed it is, Mr. Careless, that I have not a son to inherit this. 'Tis true I have a daughter, and a fine dutiful child she is, though I say it, blessed be providence I may say; for indeed, Mr. Careless, I am mightily beholden to providence. A poor unworthy sinner. But if I had a son! Ah, that's my affliction, and my only affliction; indeed I cannot refrain tears when it comes in my mind. [_Cries_.] CARE. Why, methinks that might be easily remedied--my lady's a fine likely woman-- SIR PAUL. Oh, a fine likely woman as you shall see in a summer's day. Indeed she is, Mr. Careless, in all respects. CARE. And I should not have taken you to have been so old-- SIR PAUL. Alas, that's not it, Mr. Careless; ah! that's not it; no, no, you shoot wide of the mark a mile; indeed you do, that's not it, Mr. Careless; no, no, that's not it. CARE. No? What can be the matter then? SIR PAUL. You'll scarcely believe me when I shall tell you--my lady is so nice. It's very strange, but it's true; too true--she's so very nice, that I don't believe she would touch a man for the world. At least not above once a year; I'm sure I have found it so; and, alas, what's once a year to an old man, who would do good in his generation? Indeed it's true, Mr. Careless, it breaks my heart. I am her husband, as I may say; though far unworthy of that honour, yet I am her husband; but alas-a-day, I have no more familiarity with her person--as to that matter--than with my own mother--no indeed. CARE. Alas-a-day, this is a lamentable story. My lady must be told on't. She must i'faith, Sir Paul; 'tis an injury to the world. SIR PAUL. Ah! would to heaven you would, Mr. Careless; you are mightily in her favour. CARE. I warrant you, what! we must have a son some way or other. SIR PAUL. Indeed I should be mightily bound to you if you could bring it about, Mr. Careless. LADY PLYANT. Here, Sir Paul, it's from your steward. Here's a return of 600 pounds; you may take fifty of it for the next half year. [_Gives him the letter_.] SCENE IX. [_To them_] LORD FROTH, CYNTHIA. SIR PAUL. How does my girl? Come hither to thy father, poor lamb: thou'rt melancholic.