_Har_. What's the matter?

_Luck_. Oh! your mother! your mother!

_Har_. What, has she been scolding ever since?

_Luck_. Worse, worse!

_Har_. Heaven forbid she should threaten to go to law with you.

_Luck_. Oh, worse! worse! she threatens to go to church with
me. She has made me a generous offer, that if I will but marry her she
will suffer me to settle all she has upon her.

_Har_. Generous creature! Sure you will not resist the proposal?

_Luck_. Hum! what would you advise me to?

_Har_. Oh, take her, take her, by all means; you will be the
prettiest, finest, loveliest, sweetest couple. Augh! what a delicate
dish of matrimony you will make! Her age with your youth, her avarice
with your extravagance, and her scolding with your poetry.

_Luck_. Nay, but I am serious, and I desire you would be so. You
know my unhappy circumstances, and your mother's wealth. It would be
at least a prudent match.

_Har_. Oh! extremely prudent, ha, ha, ha! the world will say,
Lard! who could have thought Mr Luckless had had so much prudence?
This one action will overbalance all the follies of your life.