Maria. My brother!—Charles—impossible.
Little P. ’Tis e’en so, and faith ’twas all a trick about the nurse and child; I coax’d the old woman to confess the whole to me—you can’t contrive to kill yourself for the loss of me, can you?—that would have a fine effect—is there nothing I can think of?—Suppose you pretend to fall in love with me, and we run away together.—
Maria. That will do admirably—depend upon my playing my part with a good will, for I owe some revenge for their treatment of you, besides, you know I can refuse you nothing.
Enter Old Pickle, behind.
Little P. Thank you a thousand times, my dearest Maria, thus then we’ll contrive it. (seeing Pickle coming behind, they pretend to whisper.)
Old P. What! how’s this!—“Dear Maria, and I’ll refuse you nothing.”—Death and the devil, my daughter has fallen in love with that young scoundrel and his yeo, yeo, yeo—she too, she embraces him—(comes forward)—mighty well, young madam—’tis mighty well, but come, you shall be locked up immediately, and you, you young rascal, be whipt out of the house.
Little P. You will not be so hard hearted, sure—we will not part—here is my anchor fixed—here am I moor’d for ever.—(Old Pickle takes hold of her, and endeavours to take her away, she resists, and Little Pickle detains her by the hand.)
Maria. (romantically) No—we’ll never part—Oh, cruel, cruel fate.
Old P. He’s infected her with his assurance already.—What, you young minx, do you own you love him?