[_Exit ~Manly~._
_Enter Mrs. ~Motherly~._
O, Mrs. _Motherly_! you were saying this morning, you had some very
fine lace to shew me----can't I see it now?
[_Sir ~Francis~ stares._
_Moth._ Why, really Madam, I had made a sort of a promise to let the
Countess of _Nicely_ have the first sight of it for the birth-day: but
your Ladyship----
Lady _Wrong._ O! I die if I don't see it before her.
Squ. _Rich._ Woan't you goa; Feyther? }
}
Sir _Fran._ Waunds! lad, I shall ha' noa } _Apart._
stomach at this rate! }
_Moth._ Well, Madam, though I say it, 'tis the sweetest pattern that
ever came over----and for fineness----no cobweb comes up to it!
Sir _Fran._ Ods guts and gizard, Madam! lace as fine as a cobweb! why,
what the devil's that to cost now?
_Moth._ Nay, Sir _Francis_ does not like of it, Madam----
Lady _Wrong._ He like it! dear Mrs. Motherly, he is not to wear it.
Sir _Fran._ Flesh, Madam, but I suppose I am to pay for it.
Lady _Wrong._ No doubt on't! think of your thousand a year, and who got
it you, go! eat your dinner, and be thankful, go. [_Driving him to the
door._] Come, Mrs. _Motherly_.
[_Exit Lady ~Wronghead~ with Mrs. ~Motherly~._
Sir _Fran._ Very fine! so here I mun fast, 'till I am almost famished
for the good of my country; while Madam is laying me out an hundred
pounds a day in lace as fine as a cobweb, for the honour of my family!
ods-flesh; things had need go well at this rate!
Squ. _Rich._ Nay, nay----come, feyther.
[_Exit Sir ~Francis~._
_Enter Mrs. ~Motherly~._
_Moth._ Madam, my Lady desires you and the Count will please to come
and assist her fancy in some of the laces.