Sir _Fran._ From which you wou'd infer, Sir, that Gaming, Whoring, and
the Pox, are Requisits to a Gentleman.

_Char._ Monstrous! when I wou'd ask him only for a Support, he falls
into these unmannerly Reproaches; I must, tho' against my Will, employ
Invention, and by Stratagem relieve my self.
(_Aside._

Sir _Fran._ Sirrah, what is it you mutter, Sirrah, ha? (_Holds up his
Cane._) I say, you sha'n't have a Groat out of my Hands till I
Please--and may be I'll never Please, and what's that to you?

_Char._ Nay, to be Robb'd, or have one's Throat Cut is not much--

Sir _Fran._ What's that, Sirrah? wou'd ye Rob me, or Cut my Throat, ye
Rogue?

_Char._ Heaven forbid, Sir,--I said no such thing.

Sir _Fran._ Mercy on me! What a Plague it is to have a Son of One and
Twenty, who wants to Elbow one out of one's Life, to Edge himself into
the Estate.

_Enter _Marplot_._

_Marpl._ Egad he's here--I was afraid I had lost him: His Secret cou'd
not be with his Father, his Wants are Publick there--Guardian,--your
Servant _Charles_, I know by that sorrowful Countenance of thine. The
old Man's Fist is as close as his strong Box--But I'll help thee--