Aim. Of what?
Sir C. Of your honour and estate. Your brother died the day before I left London; and all your friends have writ after you to Brussels: among the rest, I did myself the honour.
Arch. Harkye, sir knight, don't you banter now?
Sir C. 'Tis truth, upon my honour.
Aim. Thanks to the pregnant stars, that formed this accident.
Arch. Thanks to the womb of time, that brought it forth—away with it.
Aim. Thanks to my guardian angel, that led me to the prize.
[Taking Dorinda's Hand.
Arch. And double thanks to the noble Sir Charles Freeman.—My lord, I wish you joy. My lady, I wish you joy.—Egad, Sir Charles, you're the honestest fellow living.—'Sdeath! I'm grown strangely airy upon this matter.——My lord, how d'ye?——A word, my lord: Don't you remember something of a previous agreement, that entitles me to the moiety of this lady's fortune, which, I think, will amount to ten thousand pounds?
Aim. Not a penny, Archer: you would have cut my throat just now, because I would not deceive this lady.