_Patch._ But is it true, Madam?

_Miran._ That's not absolutely necessary.

_Patch._ I thought it was only the old Strain, coaxing him still for
your own, and railing at all the young Fellows about Town; in my Mind
now, you are as ill plagu'd with your Guardian, Madam, as my Lady is
with her Father.

_Miran._ No, I have Liberty, Wench, that she wants; what would she give
now to be in this _dissabilee_ in the--open Air, nay more, in pursuit of
the young Fellow she likes; for that's my Case, I assure thee.

_Patch._ As for that, Madam, she's even with you; for tho' she can't
come abroad, we have a way to bring him home in spight of old _Argus_.

_Miran._ Now _Patch_, your Opinion of my Choice, for here he comes--Ha!
my Guardian with him; what can be the meaning of this? I'm sure Sir
_Francis_ can't know me in this Dress--Let's observe 'em.
(_They
withdraw._

_Enter Sir _Francis Gripe_ and Sir _George Airy_._

Sir _Fran._ Verily, Sir _George_, thou wilt repent throwing away thy
Money so, for I tell thee sincerely, _Miranda_, my Charge do's not love
a young Fellow, they are all vicious, and seldom make good Husbands; in
sober Sadness she cannot abide 'em.

_Miran._ (_Peeping._) In sober Sadness you are mistaken--what can this