Man. So! the family comes on finely.
[Aside.
Lady Wrong. Lard, if men were always to govern, what dowdies would they reduce their wives to!
Sir Fran. An hundred pound in the morning, and want another before night! waunds and fire! the Lord Mayor of London could not hold it at this rate!
Man. O! do you feel it, Sir?
[Aside.
Lady Wrong. My dear, you seem uneasy; let me have the hundred pound, and compose yourself.
Sir Fran. Compose the devil, Madam! why do you consider what a hundred pound a day comes to in a year?
Lady Wrong. My life, if I account with you from one day to another, that's really all my head is able to bear at a time——But I'll tell you what I consider——I consider that my advice has got you a thousand pound a year this morning——That now methinks you might consider, Sir.
Sir Fran. A thousand a year? wounds, madam, but I have not touch'd a penny of it yet!