_Char._ I will be sure on't. 'Twas madness in me to give it to his
management. But I'll demand it from him this morning. I have a
melancholy occasion for't.

_Mrs. Bev._ What occasion?

_Char._ To support a sister.

_Mrs. Bev._ No; I have no need on't. Take it, and reward a lover
with it. The generous Lewson deserves much more. Why won't you make
him happy?

_Char._ Because my sister's miserable.

_Mrs. Bev._ You must not think so. I have my jewels left yet. I'll
sell them to supply our wants; and when all's gone these hands shall
toil for our support. The poor should be industrious--Why those
tears, Charlotte?

_Char._ They flow in pity for you.

_Mrs. Bev._ All may be well yet. When he has nothing to lose,
I shall fetter him in these arms again; and then what is it to be
poor?

_Char._ Cure him but of this destructive passion, and my uncle's
death may retrieve all yet.

_Mrs. Bev._ Ay, Charlotte, _could_ we cure him. But the disease of
play admits no cure but poverty; and the loss of another fortune