Dia. Shou’d I consent, my Father is a Man whom Interest sways, not Honour; and whatsoever Promises he ‘as made you, he means to break ‘em all, and I am destin’d to another.
Bea. How, another—his Name, his Name, Madam—here’s Ned and I fear ne’er a single Man i’th’ Nation, What is he—what is he?—
Dia. A Fop, a Fool, a beaten Ass—a Blockhead.
Bea. What a damn’d Shame’s this, that Women shou’d be sacrificed to
Fools, and Fops must run away with Heiresses—whilst we Men of Wit and
Parts dress and dance, and cock and travel for nothing but to be tame
Keepers.
Dia. But I, by Heaven, will never be that Victim: But where my Soul is vow’d, ‘tis fix’d for ever.
Bred. Are you resolv’d, are you confirm’d in this? Oh my Diana, speak it o’er again. [Runs to her, and embraces her. Bless me, and make me happier than a Monarch.
Bea. Hold, hold, dear Ned—that’s my part, I take it.
Bred. Your Pardon, Sir, I had forgot my self. —But time is short—what’s to be done in this?
Bea. Done! I’ll enter the House with Fire and Sword, d’ye see, not that I care this—but I’ll not be fob’d off—what, do they take me for a Fool—an Ass?
Bred. Madam, dare you run the risk of your Father’s Displeasure, and run away with the Man you love?