Bred. No, assure your self, Madam—
L. Ful. Of that I would be better satisfied—and you too must assist me, as e’er you hope I should be kind to you in gaining you Diana. [To Bredwel.
Bred. Madam, I’ll die to serve you.
Pert. Nor will I be behind in my Duty.
L. Ful. Oh, how fatal are forc’d Marriages!
How many Ruins one such Match pulls on!
Had I but kept my Sacred Vows to Gayman,
How happy had I been—how prosperous he!
Whilst now I languish in a loath’d embrace,
Pine out my Life with Age—Consumptions, Coughs.
—But dost thou fear that Gayman is declining?
Bred. You are my Lady, and the best of Mistresses— Therefore I would not grieve you, for I know You love this best—but most unhappy Man.
L. Ful. You shall not grieve me—prithee on.
Bred. My Master sent me yesterday to Mr. Crap, his Scrivener, to send to one Mr. Wasteall, to tell him his first Mortgage was out, which is two hundred pounds a Year—and who has since ingaged five or six hundred more to my Master; but if this first be not redeem’d, he’ll take the Forfeit on’t, as he says a wise Man ought.
L. Ful. That is to say, a Knave, according to his Notion of a wise
Man.
Bred. Mr. Crap, being busy with a borrowing Lord, sent me to Mr. Wasteall, whose Lodging is in a nasty Place called Alsatia, at a Black-Smith’s.