_Politica._ Matrimony is, indeed, become a mere Trade; they carry their Daughters to _Smithfield_, as they do Horses, and sell to the highest Bidder. Formerly, I have heard, nothing went current in the Matrimonial Territories, but Birth and Blood; but, alas! this was in the antiquated Times, when Virtue and Honour were a Commodity in _England_, and when the Nobility and Gentry were in Possession of large Estates, and were content to live upon them, and keep Courts of their own in the Country; but, since they abandoned the State and Grandeur of their Fore-fathers, and became Courtiers, and extravagantly wasted their Substance in polluted Amours in the City, they have no Way to repair the Cracks in the Estates, but by Marrying of Fortunes; and, if the Woman be a Fortune, it is no Matter how she is descended; Gold is the Quarry they fly at. I remember some old Verses to this Purpose: 'Gold Marriages makes, 'tis the Center of Love; 'It sets up the Man, and it helps up the Woman: 'By the Golden Rule all Mortals do move, 'For Gold makes Lords bow to the Brat of a Broom-man.' These Verses are older than either you, or I, and yet they are true in our Time. _Sophia._ Aye, Madam, too true, I find it so; but, methinks, it is a mere Way of selling Children for Money, when, poor Creatures, they often purchase what will be a Plague to them all their Life-time, a cursed ill-natured Shrew, or a beastly, ill-conditioned Husband. Let me live a Maid to the last Minute of my Life, rather than thus to lose my Content, my Peace of Mind, and domestick Quiet, and all this for the inconsiderable Trifle of a large Bag of Money for my Portion. Let the old Curmudgeons keep the Golden Coxcombs, their Sons, for the best Market. Heaven send me a Spouse, that has Sense enough to despise a Bargain in Petticoats with Abundance of Money and no Brains! Methinks, a _Smithfield_ Match is so very ridiculous, that it might nauseate a half-witted Courtier. How ridiculous is it for an old Miser to shew the Portion first, and his Daughter afterwards! And, when both Parties are agreed upon the Price, then Miss goes off, coarse or handsome, good or ill-natured, it is no Matter. I fancy, an old Miser, exposing his Daughter to Sale, looks like a Country Farmer selling his white-faced Calf in the Market, or like a Grasier enhancing the Price of a ragged, scrubby Ox, from the Consideration of Abundance of Tallow he will turn out. Even just such a Thing is a _Smithfield_ Match; and, as soon as the Miser has struck the Bargain for his Daughter, away he goes to the Parson's Toll-book, and there is an End of the Matter.