Enter Drawer.
Draw. Mr. Marplot is below, Gentlemen, and desires to know if he may have Leave to wait upon ye.
Char. How civil the Rogue is when he has done a fault!
Sir Geo. Ho! Desire him to walk up. Prithee, Charles, throw off this Chagreen, and be good Company.
Char. Nay, hang him, I'm not angry with him. Whisper, fetch me Pen, Ink and Paper.
Whisp. Yes, Sir.
(Ex. Whisp.
Enter Marplot.
Char. Do but mark his sheepish Look, Sir George.
Marpl. Dear Charles, don't o'erwhelm a Man—already under insupportable Affliction. I'm sure I always intend to serve my Friends; but if my malicious Stars deny the Happiness, is the fault mine?