Lo. Indeed, Sir, I shou'd not.
Young Fash. How dost know?
Lo. Because, Sir, I have wonder'd at you so often, I can wonder at you no more.
Young Fash. No! what wouldst thou say if a Qualm of Conscience should spoil my Design?
Lo. I wou'd eat my Words, and wonder more than ever.
Young Fash. Why, faith, Lory, tho' I am a young Rake-hell, and have play'd many a Roguish Trick; this is so full grown a Cheat, I find I must take pains to come up to't; I have Scruples——
Lo. They are strong Symptoms of Death; if you find they increase, pray, Sir, make your Will.
Young Fash. No, my Conscience shan't starve me, neither. But thus far I'll hearken to it; before I execute this Project, I'll try my Brother to the bottom, I'll speak to him with the Temper of a Philosopher; my Reasons (tho' they press him home) shall yet be cloth'd with so much Modesty, not one of all the Truths they urge, shall be so naked to offend his Sight: if he has yet so much Humanity about him, as to assist me (tho' with a moderate Aid) I'll drop my Project at his Feet, and shew him how I can do for him, much more than what I ask he'd do for me. This one conclusive Trial of him I resolve to make—
Succeed or no, still Victory's my Lot; }
If I subdue his Heart, 'tis well; if not, }
I shall subdue my Conscience to my Plot. }
[Exeunt.