Loveyet. And that he will be here soon, and that when he comes, I am going to marry him to Miss Maria Airy.
Humphry. I must go tell Mr. Lovit of that, at once.
[Aside, and exit.
Loveyet. And—but it is no matter now:—I suppose she will tell you a fine story of a cock and a bull.
Harriet. I shall not be base enough to deceive a father, I give you my honour, sir.
Loveyet. I am very much mistaken if you have not given that to somebody already:—A woman's honour is a very perishable commodity; a little thing often spoils it.
Harriet. By what a feeble tenure does poor woman hold her character and peace of mind!—It is true, sir, that a woman's reputation is too frequently, with ruffian cruelty, blasted in the bud, without a cause; and that so effectually, that it seldom or never flourishes again; but let me remind you, sir, in the words of the poet, that—
"Honour's a sacred tie, the law of kings;—
It ought not to be sported with."
Loveyet. I say it ought to be sported with; and, by my body, 'tis capital sport, too;—eigh, Horace?—[Sings.]—"Then hoity toity, whisky frisky, &c."
Trueman. A truce to your insipid, hard-labour'd wit: the honour you are pleased to call in question, is not an empty name which can be purchased with gold; it is too inestimable to be counterpoised by that imaginary good; otherwise the titles of Honourable and Excellent would be always significant of his Honour's or his Excellency's intrinsic worth;—a thing "devoutly to be wish'd," but unfortunately too seldom exemplified; for, as the dramatic muse elegantly says of money,—"Who steals my purse, steals trash."