CHARLES. Not that I know of, Sir Oliver.
SIR OLIVER. What[!] little Premium has been let too much into the secret I presume.
CHARLES. True—Sir—but they were Family Secrets, and should not be mentioned again you know.
ROWLEY. Come Sir Oliver I know you cannot speak of Charles's Follies with anger.
SIR OLIVER. Odd's heart no more I can—nor with gravity either—Sir Peter do you know the Rogue bargain'd with me for all his Ancestors—sold me judges and Generals by the Foot, and Maiden Aunts as cheap as broken China!
CHARLES. To be sure, Sir Oliver, I did make a little free with the Family Canvas that's the truth on't:—my Ancestors may certainly rise in judgment against me there's no denying it—but believe me sincere when I tell you, and upon my soul I would not say so if I was not—that if I do not appear mortified at the exposure of my Follies, it is because I feel at this moment the warmest satisfaction in seeing you, my liberal benefactor.
SIR OLIVER. Charles—I believe you—give me your hand again: the ill-looking little fellow over the Couch has made your Peace.
CHARLES. Then Sir—my Gratitude to the original is still encreased.
LADY TEAZLE. [Advancing.] Yet I believe, Sir Oliver, here is one whom Charles is still more anxious to be reconciled to.
SIR OLIVER. O I have heard of his Attachment there—and, with the young Lady's Pardon if I construe right that Blush——