Inkle. Well, be it so; it will give me time, at all events, to put my affairs in train.
Trudge. Yes; it's a short respite before execution; and if your honour was to go and comfort poor Madam Yarico——
Inkle. Damnation! Scoundrel, how dare you offer your advice?—I dread to think of her!
Trudge. I've done, sir, I've done—But I know I should blubber over Wows all night, if I thought of parting with her in the morning.
Inkle. Insolence! begone, sir!
Trudge. Lord, sir, I only——
Inkle. Get down stairs, sir, directly.
Trudge. [Going out.] Ah! you may well put your hand to your head; and a bad head it must be, to forget that Madam Yarico prevented her countrymen from peeling off the upper part of it. [Aside.]
[Exit.
Inkle. 'Sdeath, what am I about? How have I slumbered! Is it I?—I—who, in London, laughed at the younkers of the town—and, when I saw their chariots, with some fine, tempting girl, perked in the corner, come shopping to the city, would cry—Ah!—there sits ruin—there flies the Green-horn's money! then wondered with myself how men could trifle time on women; or, indeed, think of any women without fortunes. And now, forsooth, it rests with me to turn romantic puppy, and give up all for love.—Give up!—Oh, monstrous folly!—thirty thousand pounds!