Sir Geo. Oh! That's by way of Prologue:— Prithee, Old Mammon, to thy Post.
Sir Fran. Well, young Timon, 'tis now 4 exactly; one Hour, remember is your utmost Limit, not a Minute more.
(Retires to the bottom of the Stage.
Sir Geo. Madam, whether you will Excuse or Blame my Love, the Author of this rash Proceeding depends upon your Pleasure, as also the Life of your Admirer; your sparkling Eyes speak a Heart susceptible of Love; your Vivacity a Soul too delicate to admit the Embraces of decay'd Mortality.
Miran. (Aside.) Oh, that I durst speak—
Sir Geo. Shake off this Tyrant Guardian's Yoke, assume your self, and dash his bold aspiring Hopes; the Deity of his Desires, is Avarice; a Heretick in Love, and ought to be banish'd by the Queen of Beauty. See, Madam, a faithful Servant kneels and begs to be admitted in the Number of your Slaves.
(Miranda gives him her Hand to Raise him.
Sir Fran. I wish I cou'd hear what he says now. (Running up.) Hold, hold, hold, no Palming, that's contrary to Articles—
Sir Geo. Death, Sir, Keep your Distance, or I'll write another Article in your Guts.
(Lays his Hand to his Sword.