Guil. Hang Titles; ‘twas my self you lov’d, my amiable sweet and charming self: In fine, sweet-heart, I am your Husband; no Viscount, but honest Guiliom, the Chimney-sweeper.—I heard your Father design’d to marry you to a Tradesman, and you were for a Don; and to please you both, you see how well I have managed matters.
Fran. I’ll not give her a farthing.
Guil. No matter, her Love’s worth a million; and, that’s so great, that I’m sure she’ll be content to carry my Soot basket after me.
Isa. Ah! I die, I die.
Guil. What, and I so kind? [Goes and kisses her, and blacks her face.
Isa. Help! murder, murder!
Guil. Well, Gentlemen, I am something a better fortune than you believe me, by some thousands. [Shows Car. his Writings.
Car. Substantial and good! faith, Sir, I know not where you’ll find a better fortune for your Daughter, as cases stand. [To Francisco.
Guil. And, for the Viscount, Sir, gay Clothes, Money and Confidence will set me up for one, in any ground in Christendom.
Car. Faith, Sir, he’s i’th’ right; take him home to Sevil, your Neighbours know him not, and he may pass for what you please to make him; the Fellow’s honest, witty and handsom.