_Dap._ We were not married here:--but you cannot be in earnest. _Gripe._ You'll find it so; since you have robbed me of my housekeeper, I must get another. _Dap._ Why, she was my wench! _Gripe._ I'll make her honest then. _Mrs. Cros._ Upon my repute he never saw her before:--but will your worship marry my daughter then? _Gripe._ I promise her and you, before all this good company, to-morrow I will make her my wife. _Dap._ How! _Ran._ Our ladies, sir, I suppose, expect the same promise from us. [_To_ VALENTINE. _Val._ They may be sure of us without a promise; but let us (if we can) obtain theirs, to be sure of them. _Dap._ But will you marry her to-morrow?--[_To_ GRIPE. _Gripe._ I will, verily. _Dap._ I am undone then! ruined, let me perish! _Sir Sim._ No, you may hire a little room in Covent Garden, and set up a coffee-house:--you and your wife will be sure of the wits' custom. _Dap._ Abused by him I have abused!-- Fortune our foe we cannot overwit; By none but thee our projects are cross-bit. _Val._ Come, dear madam, what, yet angry?--jealousy sure is much more pardonable before marriage than after it; but to-morrow, by the help of the parson, you'll put me out of all my fears. _Chris._ I am afraid then you would give me my revenge, and make me jealous of you; and I had rather suspect your faith than you should mine. _Ran._ Cousin Lydia, I had rather suspect your faith too, than you should mine; therefore let us e'en marry to-morrow, that I may have my turn of watching, dogging, standing under the window, at the door, behind the hanging, or-- _Lyd._ But if I could be desperate now and give you up my liberty, could you find in your heart to quit all other engagements, and voluntarily turn yourself over to one woman, and she a wife too? could you away with the insupportable bondage of matrimony? _Ran._ You talk of matrimony as irreverently as my Lady Flippant: the bondage of matrimony! no-- The end of marriage now is liberty. And two are bound--to set each other free. EPILOGUE SPOKEN BY DAPPERWIT.[50] Now my brisk brothers of the pit, you'll say I'm come to speak a good word for the play; But gallants, let me perish! if I do, For I have wit and judgment, just like you; Wit never partial, judgment free and bold, For fear or friendship never bought or sold, Nor by good-nature e'er to be cajoled. Good-nature in a critic were a crime, Like mercy in a judge, and renders him Guilty of all those faults he does forgive, Besides, if thief from gallows you reprieve, He'll cut your throat; so poet saved from shame, In damned lampoon will murder your good name. Yet in true spite to him and to his play, Good faith, you should not rail at them to-day But to be more his foe, seem most his friend, And so maliciously the play commend; That he may be betrayed to writing on, And poet let him be,--to be undone. _THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER._