Sir Simon. Isn't it the common policy? and the necessities of your boasters of pedigree produce a thousand intermarriages with people of no pedigree at all;—till, at last, we so jumble a genealogy, that, if the devil himself would pluck knowledge from the family tree, he could hardly find out the original fruit.
[Exeunt severally.
Enter Tom Shuffleton, from the Park, following Lady Caroline Braymore.
Shuff. "The time is come for Iphigene to find,
"The miracle she wrought upon my mind;"
Lady Car. Don't talk to me.
Shuff. "For, now, by love, by force she shall be mine,
"Or death, if force should fail, shall finish my design."
Lady Car. I wish you would finish your nonsense.
Shuff. Nonsense:—'tis poetry; somebody told me 'twas written by Dryden.
Lady Car. Perhaps so;——but all poetry is nonsense.
Shuff. Hear me, then, in prose.