Oliv. Sir, you mistake, my Lady is for Matrimony.
Wel. How!
Oliv. You have not forsworn it, I hope.
Wel. Not so—but—
Oliv. If a Lady, young and handsom, and Ten Thousand Pounds—
Wel. Nay, I am not positive—
[Enter Sir Morgan], and Sir Merlin, drunk, singing.
Wise Coxcombs be damn’d, here’s a health to the Man,
That since Life is but short, lives as long as he can.
Sir Morg. Where is my Lady Mirtilla, Rogues?