Lov. Thank you, my lord; but methinks 'tis much better as it is.
Isa. Come, nuncle, 'tis in vain to hold out, now 'tis past remedy: 'Tis like the last act of a play, when people must marry; and if fathers will not consent then, they should throw oranges at them from the galleries. Why should you stand off, to keep us from a dance?
Non. But there's one thing still that troubles me; that's her great belly, and my own too.
Const. Nay, for mine, my lord, 'tis vanished already; 'twas but a trick to catch the old one.
Lov. But I'll do my best; she shall not be long without another.
Isa. But as for your great belly, nuncle, I know no way to rid you on't, but by taking out your guts.
Lov. 'Tis such a pretty smart rascal, 'tis well I am pleased with my own choice: but I could have got such Hectors, and poets, and gamesters, out of thee!—
Const. No, no; two wits could never have lived well together; want would have so sharpened you upon one another.
Isa. A wit should naturally be joined to a fortune; by the same reason your vintners feed their hungry wines.
Const. And if Sir Timorous and I had married, we two fortunes must have built hospitals with our money; we could never have spent it else.