Sir _Morg._ Nay, if it be the Fashion, I’ll e’en into the Country, and be merry with my Tenants, and Hawk, and Hunt, and Horse-match. _Prince._ But now, Sir, I’ll resign my Right to you, and content myself with the Honour to have preserv’d her from the Fire. [_Prince_ delivers _Mirtilla_ to Sir _Morgan_, who receives her. Sir _Morg._ As gad shall sa’ me, Sir, you’re a civil Person; and now I find you can endure a Woman, Sir, I’ll give you leave to visit her. Sir _Row._ Well, since we’re all agreed, and that the Fiddles are here, adsnigs, we’ll have a Dance, Sweet-heart, though thou hast out-witted me. [Takes _Teresia_, _George_ takes Lady _Youthly_, &c. After the Dance, Lady _Youthly_ weeps. _Geo._ What, weeping yet? Here, Mr. _Twang_, take the Lady to your Care; in these Cases, there’s nothing like the Consolation of your young Chaplain. The Widow, with young Jointure, and old Face, Affected Mein, and Amorous Grimace, Uses to fall to th’ younger Brother’s share; } But I by Fortune, and Industrious Care, } Have got one that’s Rich, Witty, Young, and Fair. } _FINIS._ EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mr. _Horden_. We’ve grown Impatient to be out of pain, And fain wou’d know our fortune, loss, or gain: The Merchants phrase mayn’t be Improper now, If ye our City Character allow. But some Spruse Criticks, I hear, swears ‘tis strange, To take a powder’d Beau off from the Exchange; A place more fam’d for Band, and dress precise, For greasy Cuckholds, Stockjobbers, and lies, Than for a Spark o’ th’ town, but now a days The Cit sets up in box, puffs, perfumes, plays, And tho’ he passes for a Man of Trade, Is the chief squeaker at the Masquerade, Let him his Sister, or his wife beware, ‘Tis not for nothing Courtiers go so far; Thus for a while he holds, till Cash is found To be a Dr. many a woful Pound, Then off he moves, and in another year, Turns true Alsatian, or Solicitor. For we (except o’ th’ stage) shall seldom find To a poor broken Beau, a Lady kind, Whilst pow’rful _Guinea_ last, he’s wondrous pretty, And much the finest Gentlemen o’ th’ City, But when fob’s empty, he’s an odious Creature. Fough, how he stinks! h’as not one taking feature, Then such an Awkard mein, and vulgar sence, I vow, I wonder at his Impudence! ‘Tis well _Lejere_ appear’d, _George_ owes the prize To the Gay Monsieur, Footmen and Disguise, Charms which few English Women can withstand, What can’t a Man of Quality command? As to the faults, or Merits of the Play } We leave ye to be judges of, yet say, } Ye ought in justice to be kind to day. } For to our Cost alas, we soon shall find, } Perhaps not half the money ye design’d, } Consider, Sirs, it goes to be refin’d. } And since in all Exchanges ‘tis a notion, For what ye take to be in due proportion, So may we justly hope no wrong is done ye If ye have _par of Wit for par of Money_.