Gripe. But, but, but, pr'ythee Brass, but——
Brass. But all the buts in the world, Sir, won't stop her: she's a woman of a noble resolution. So, Sir, your humble servant; I pity her, I pity you. Turtle and mate; but the Fates will have it so, all's packt up, and I'm now going to call her a coach, for she resolves to slip off without saying a word: and the next visit she receives from her friends, will be through a melancholy grate, with a veil instead of a top-knot.
[Going.
Gripe. It must not be, by the Powers it must not; she was made for the world, and the world was made for her.
Brass. And yet you see, Sir, how small a share she has on't.
Gripe. Poor woman! Is there no way to save her?
Brass. Save her! No, how can she be saved? why she owes above five hundred pounds.
Gripe. Oh!
Brass. Five hundred pounds, Sir; she's like to be sav'd indeed.——Not but that I know them in this town wou'd give me one of the five, if I wou'd persuade her to accept of th' other four: but she has forbid me mentioning it to any soul living; and I have disobey'd her only to you; and so—I'll go and call a coach.
Gripe. Hold!—--dost think, my poor Brass, one might not order it so, as to compound those debts for——for——twelve pence in the pound?