Sir Fran. Oh I'm Transported! When, when, my Dear, wilt thou Convince the World of thy Happy Day? when shall we marry, ha?
Miran. There's nothing wanting but your Consent, Sir Francis.
Sir Fran. My Consent! what do's my Charmer mean?
Miran. Nay, 'tis only a Whim: But I'll have every thing according to form— Therefore when you sign an Authentick Paper, drawn up by an able Lawyer, that I have your Leave to marry, the next Day makes me yours, Gardee.
Sir Fran. Ha, ha, ha, a Whim indeed! why is it not Demonstration I give my Leave when I marry thee.
Miran. Not for your Reputation, Gardee; the malicious World will be apt to say, you trick'd me into Marriage, and so take the Merit from my Choice. Now I will have the Act my own, to let the idle Fops see how much I prefer a Man loaded with Years and Wisdom.
Sir Fran. Humph! Prithee leave out Years, Chargee, I'm not so old, as thou shalt find: Adod, I'm young; there's a Caper for ye.
(Jumps.
Miran. Oh never excuse it, why I like you the better for being old— But I shall suspect you don't love me, if you Refuse me this Formality.
Sir Fran. Not Love thee, Chargee! Adod I do love thee better than, than, than, better than—what shall I say? Egad, better than Money, I faith I do—