Count Bas. Dear Sir!
Man. No words, Sir; a wife or a mittimus.
Count Bas. Lord, Sir! this is the most unmerciful mercy!
Man. A private penance, or a public one——constable.
Count Bas. Hold, Sir, since you are pleas'd to give me my choice; I will not make so ill a compliment to the Lady, as not to give her the preference.
Man. It must be done this minute, Sir: the chaplain you expected is still within call.
Count Bas. Well, Sir,——since it must be so——come, spouse——I am not the first of the fraternity that has run his head into one noose, to keep it out of another.
Myr. Come, Sir, don't repine: marriage is, at worst, but playing upon the square.
Count Bas. Ay, but the worst of the match too, is the devil.
Man. Well, Sir, to let you see it is not so bad as you think it; as a reward for her honesty, in detecting your practices, instead of the forged bill you would have put upon her, there's a real one of five hundred pounds, to begin a new honey-moon with.