Vizard. Ha! I hear a voice. Madam——my life, my happiness, where are you, madam?
Smug. Madam! He takes me for a woman too: I'll try him. Where have you left your sanctity, Mr. Vizard?
Vizard. Talk no more of that ungrateful subject—I left it where it has only business, with day-light; 'tis needless to wear a mask in the dark.
Smug. Well, sir, but I suppose your dissimulation has some other motive besides pleasure?
Vizard. Yes, madam, the honestest motive in the world—interest——You must know, madam, that I have an old uncle, Alderman Smuggler; you have seen him, I suppose.
Smug. Yes, yes, I have some small acquaintance with him.
Vizard. 'Tis the most knavish, precise, covetous old rogue, that ever died of the gout.
Smug. Ah, the young son of a whore! [Aside.] Well, sir, and what of him?
Vizard. Why, madam, he has a swingeing estate, which I design to purchase as a saint, and spend like a gentleman. He got it by cheating, and should lose it by deceit. By the pretence of my zeal and sobriety, I'll cozen the old miser, one of these days, out of a settlement and deed of conveyance——
Smug. It shall be a deed to convey you to the gallows then, ye young dog. [Aside.