Miran. Hold! not so fast, I have provided better than to venture on dangerous Experiments headlong— My Guardian, trusting to my dissembled Love, has given up my Fortune to my own dispose; but with this Proviso, that he to Morrow morning weds me. He is now gone to Doctors Commons for a License.
Sir Geo. Ha, a License!
Miran. But I have planted Emissaries that infallibly take him down to Epsom, under pretence that a Brother Usurer of his, is to make him his Executor; the thing on Earth he covets.
Sir Geo. 'Tis his known Character.
Miran. Now my Instruments confirm him, this Man is dying, and he sends me word he goes this Minute; it must be to Morrow e'er he can be undeceiv'd. That time is ours.
Sir Geo. Let us improve it then, and settle on our coming Years, endless, endless Happiness.
Miran. I dare not stir till I hear he's on the Road—then I and my Writings, the most material point, are soon removed.
Sir Geo. I have one Favour to ask, if it lies in your power, you wou'd be a Friend to poor Charles, tho' the Son of this tenacious Man: He is as free from all his Vices, as Nature and a good Education can make him; and what now I have vanity enough to hope will induce you, he is the Man on Earth I love.
Miran. I never was his Enemy, and only put it on as it help'd my Designs on his Father. If his Uncle's Estate ought to be in his Possession, which I shrewdly suspect, I may do him a singular piece of Service.
Sir Geo. You are all Goodness.