Squire Sul. Sir Charles, you love your sister, and I love her fortune; every one to his fancy. [281]
Arch. Then you won't refund;
Squire Sul. Not a stiver.
Arch. Then I find, madam, you must e'en go to your prison again.
Count Bel. What is the portion?
Sir Chas. Ten thousand pounds, sir.
Count Bel. Garzoon, I 'll pay it, and she shall go home wid me. [289]
Arch. Ha! ha! ha! French all over.— Do you know, sir, what ten thousand pounds English is?
Count Bel. No, begar, not justement.
Arch. Why, sir, 'tis a hundred thousand livres.