Sir Fran. Sirrah, what is it you mutter, Sirrah, ha? (Holds up his Cane.) I say, you sha'n't have a Groat out of my Hands till I Please—and may be I'll never Please, and what's that to you?
Char. Nay, to be Robb'd, or have one's Throat Cut is not much—
Sir Fran. What's that, Sirrah? wou'd ye Rob me, or Cut my Throat, ye Rogue?
Char. Heaven forbid, Sir,— I said no such thing.
Sir Fran. Mercy on me! What a Plague it is to have a Son of One and Twenty, who wants to Elbow one out of one's Life, to Edge himself into the Estate.
Enter Marplot.
Marpl. Egad he's here— I was afraid I had lost him: His Secret cou'd not be with his Father, his Wants are Publick there— Guardian,—your Servant Charles, I know by that sorrowful Countenance of thine. The old Man's Fist is as close as his strong Box— But I'll help thee—
Sir Fran. So: Here's another extravagant Coxcomb, that will spend his Fortune before he comes to't; but he shall pay swinging Interest, and so let the Fool go on— Well, what do's Necessity bring you too, Sir?
Marpl. You have hit it, Guardian— I want a Hundred Pound.
Sir Fran. For what?