LORY.
Ay, sir, if the devil don’t step between the cup and the lip, as he used to do.
TOM FASHION.
Why, faith, he has played me many a damned trick to spoil my fortune; and, egad, I am almost afraid he’s at work about it again now; but if I should tell thee how, thou’dst wonder at me.
LORY.
Indeed, sir, I should not.
TOM FASHION.
How dost know?
LORY.
Because, sir, I have wondered at you so often, I can wonder at you no more.
TOM FASHION.
No! what wouldst thou say, if a qualm of conscience should spoil my design?
LORY.
I would eat my words, and wonder more than ever.
TOM FASHION.
Why faith, Lory, though I have played 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.
LORY.
They are strong symptoms of death. If you find they increase, sir, pray make your will.
TOM FASHION.
No, my conscience shan’t starve me neither: but thus far I’ll listen to it. Before I execute this project, I’ll try my brother to the bottom. If he has yet so much humanity about him as to assist me—though with a moderate aid—I’ll drop my project at his feet, and show him how I can do for him much more than what I’d ask he’d do for me. This one conclusive trial of him I resolve to make.