Oliv. Thou wilt be like a Lover presently, and tire the Hearer with a Book of Words, of heavy Sighs, dying Languishments, and all that huddle of Nonsense; and not tell me how you like my Marriage.
Geo. Welborn’s my Friend, and worthy of thy Heart.
Oliv. I never saw him yet; and to be sold unseen, and unsigh’d for, in the Flower of my Youth and Beauty, gives me a strange aversion to the Match.
Geo. Oh! you’ll like him when you see him—But my Mirtilla.—
Oliv. Like him—no, no, I never shall—what, come a Stranger to my Husband’s Bed? ’Tis Prostitution in the leudest manner, without the Satisfaction; the Pleasure of Variety, and the Bait of Profit, may make a lame excuse for Whores, who change their Cullies, and quit their nauseous Fools—No, no, my Brother, when Parents grow arbitrary, ’tis time we look into our Rights and Privileges; therefore, my dear George, if e’er thou hope for Happiness in Love, assist my Disobedience.
Geo. In any worthy Choice be sure of me; but canst thou wish Happiness in Love, and not inform me something of Mirtilla?
Oliv. I’ll tell you better News—our hopeful elder Brother, Sir Merlin, is like to be disinherited; for he is, Heaven be thanked—
Geo. Marry’d to some Town-Jilt, the common fate of Coxcombs.
Oliv. Not so, my dear George, but sets up for a celebrated Rake-hell, as well as Gamester; he cou’d not have found out a more dextrous way to have made thee Heir to four Thousand Pounds a Year.
Geo. What’s that without Mirtilla?