Eug. 'Tis time must work that cure.
Theo. But why thy pardon is not yet obtain'd,
Let me be free in my conjectures to thee.
Eug. Speak, friend, as to thyself.
Theo. Sir Argent Scrape,
Your old rich kinsman, who to-morrow morning
Is to be married to the Lady Covet——
Eug. Is that match come about? O avarice!
What monsters thou begett'st in this vile age!
Theo. Sir Argent Scrape, I say, is next heir male,
On whom thy whole estate was long ago
Entail'd.
Eug. 'Tis true.
Theo. He must inherit it,
Should thy life fail.
Eug. 'Tis granted.
Theo. Then, friend, hear
What not a bare conjecture, but strong grounds
Move me to utter. Think upon that word
Thou spok'st so lately: think what avarice
Can make her bondmen do—that such a price
As fifteen hundred pounds a year will make
Him labour, not thy pardon, but thy death.