_Fran_. A Nobleman, marry come up, your Father, Huswife, meaning my self, was a Leather-seller at first, till, growing rich, I set up for a Merchant, and left that mechanick Trade; and since turned Gentleman; and Heav’n blest my Endeavours so as I have an Estate for a _Spanish_ Grandee; and, are you so proud, forsooth, that a Merchant won’t down with you, but you must be gaping after a Cap and Feather, a Silver Sword with a more dreadful Ribbon at the hilt?--Come, come, I fear me, Huswise, you are one that puff’s her up with Pride thus;--but lay thy hand upon thy Conscience now.-- [_To Jacinta_. _Jac_. Who, I, Sir? No, no, I am for marrying her out of hand to any reasonable Husband, except a Merchant; for Maids will long, and that’s _Probatum est_ against the prevailing distemper of Longing. Hitherto I dare answer for her, but Batteries will be made, and I dare not be always responsible for frail Mortality. _Fran_. Well, I have provided her one that I like, but if she be so squeamish, let her fast, with a Murrain to her. _Isa_. Dear Father. _Fran_. Dear me no Dears: wou’d your old Mother were alive, she wou’d have strapt your Just-au-corps, for puleing after Cavaliers and Nobleman, i’faith, that wou’d she; a Citizen’s Daughter, and would be a _Madona_--in good time. _Isa. Why, Father, the Gentry and Nobility now-a-days frequently marry Citizens Daughters. _Fran_. Come, come, Mistress, I got by the City, and I love and honour the City; I confess ‘tis the Fashion now-a-days, if a Citizen get but a little Money, one goes to building Houses, and brick Walls; another must buy an Office for his Son, a third hoists up his Daughter’s Topsail, and flaunts it away, much above her breeding; and these things make so many break, and cause the decay of Trading: but I am for the honest _Dutch_ way of breeding their Children, according to their Fathers Calling. _Isa_. That’s very hard, because you are a laborious, ill-bred Tradesman, I must be bound to be a mean Citizen’s Wife. _Fran_. Why, what are you better than I, forsooth, that you must be a Lady, and have your Petticoats lac’d four Stories high; wear your false Towers, and cool your self with your _Spanish_ Fan? Come, come, Baggage, wear me your best Clothes a Sunday, and brush ‘em up a Monday Mornings, and follow your Needle all the Week after; that was your good old Mother’s way, and your Grandmother’s before her; and as for the Husband, take no care about it, I have designed it _Antonio_, and _Antonio_ you are like to wed, or beat the hoof, Gentlewoman, or turn poor _Clare_, and die a begging Nun, and there’s an end on’t--see where he comes--I’ll leave you to ponder upon the business. [_Exit_.] _Enter_ Antonio. Isabella _weeps_. _Ant_. What, in Tears, _Isabella?_ what is’t can force that tribute from your Eyes? _Isa_. A Trifle, hardly worth the naming, your self.-- _Ant_. Do I? pray, for what Sin of mine must your fair Eyes be punish’d?