Moth. Well, Madam, though I say it, 'tis the sweetest pattern that ever came over——and for fineness——no cobweb comes up to it!
Sir Fran. Ods guts and gizard, Madam! lace as fine as a cobweb! why, what the devil's that to cost now?
Moth. Nay, Sir Francis does not like of it, Madam——
Lady Wrong. He like it! dear Mrs. Motherly, he is not to wear it.
Sir Fran. Flesh, Madam, but I suppose I am to pay for it.
Lady Wrong. No doubt on't! think of your thousand a year, and who got it you, go! eat your dinner, and be thankful, go. [Driving him to the door.] Come, Mrs. Motherly.
[Exit Lady Wronghead with Mrs. Motherly.
Sir Fran. Very fine! so here I mun fast, 'till I am almost famished for the good of my country; while Madam is laying me out an hundred pounds a day in lace as fine as a cobweb, for the honour of my family! ods-flesh; things had need go well at this rate!
Squ. Rich. Nay, nay——come, feyther.