Tall. I begin to think, marriage is no laughing matter, Doll—now, I tell you truly, I like you as well as any thing I ever saw—Good points—fancy, thirteen hands high, and, by my lady's account, rising nineteen years last grass—but I tell you some things you must learn, to be my wife.—My mother, you must know, was a fine lady, all upon the hoity-toities, and so, good for nothing—Says father to me, one evening, as the last whiff of his fourth pipe sighed to the tears of the third tankard—Gaby, my dear boy, never marry a woman that can't breakfast on beef—carve a goose—won't withdraw from table, before "King and constitution," and sing a jolly song at first bidding—and then, says he, [Snores.] take care o'the girls, Gaby—and dropping asleep—yes, father, says I, I'll take care o'the girls—and with that, I slipped a brace of yellow boys out of his purse, and, next day, bought Peggy Trundle, the housemaid, a pair of Bath garters, silver shoe-buckles, and a marquisate pin, for her stomacher, he! he! he!
Miss Dolly B. I shouldn't ha' thought of your entertaining me with your old father's pipe, and Peggy Trundle's stomachers—if you're come here to run away with me, why, do the thing at once, and let's have no more talk about it.
Tall. True, Doll, such a fortune as yours, don't offer every day—I've a chaise at the door, and a sulky for Father Dominic, and, as your dad may be for pursuing us, I won't depend upon those rascally French postboys—it's all crack, smack, jabber, grin, and bustle—great noise, and little work, with them—No, no, I'll put on a jacket and great boots—a good disguise too—I'll drive you myself, gee up, my queen—you'll see how we'll tatter the road—do it there, whipcord—shave the signpost—Ah, softly up hill, good Bully—bit of hay to cool their mouths—pint o' twopenny, and a new lash—then, spank the Unicorn slapdash—Gee up—once we're coupled, let Sir John come whistle for you—Gee up—Ah, Button—do it there—softly, my honies—gee-ah! ha!
[Imitating.
[Exit.
Miss Dolly B. Upon my word, this is clever—so, a gentleman can't go to be married, without his great boots! and t'other youth couldn't go without his dancing pumps—Ecod, if one of my old sweethearts was to step in now, I am so vexed, I should be strongly tempted to give them both the double.
Lackland. [Without.] Oh, the lady's this way.
Miss Dolly B. Who have we now? I protest, the sprightly, elegant gentleman, that sent papa for his snuff box—he's a vastly pretty fellow!
Enter Lackland.
Lack. At last I have found her—I hate courtship—no occasion here, I fancy—so sans ceremonie—here goes—[Aside.] Ma'am, your most obedient—