Aldo. A pox of his unlucky handsel!  He can but fumble, and will not pay neither.

Pru. Hang him; I could never endure him, father:  He is the filthiest old goat; and then he comes every day to our house, and eats out his thirty guineas; and at three months end, he threw me off.

Mrs Over. And since then, the poor child has dwindled, and dwindled away.  Her next maiden-head brought me but ten; and from ten she fell to five; and at last to a single guinea:  She has no luck to keeping; they all leave her, the more my sorrow.

Aldo. We must get her a husband then in the city; they bite rarely at a stale whore at this end of the town, new furbished up in a tawdry manteau.

Mrs Over. No:  Pray let her try her fortune a little longer in the world first:  By my troth, I should be loth to be at all this cost, in her French, and her singing, to have her thrown away upon a husband.

Aldo. Before George, there can come no good of your swearing, Mrs Overdon:  Say your prayers, Prue, and go duly to church o’Sundays, you’ll thrive the better all the week.  Come, have a good heart, child; I will keep thee myself:  Thou shalt do my little business; and I’ll find thee an able young fellow to do thine.

  Enter Mrs PAD.

Daughter Pad, you are welcome:  What, you have performed the last Christian office to your keeper; I saw you follow him up the heavy hill to Tyburn.  Have you had never a business since his death?

Mrs Pad. No indeed, father; never since execution-day.  The night before, we lay together most lovingly in Newgate; and the next morning he lift up his eyes, and prepared his soul with a prayer, while one might tell twenty; and then mounted the cart as merrily, as if he had been going for a purse.

Aldo. You are a sorrowful widow, daughter Pad; but I’ll take care of you.—­Geoffery, see her rigged out immediately for a new voyage:  Look in figure 9, in the upper drawer, and give her out the flowered justacorps, with the petticoat belonging to it.

Mrs Pad. Could you not help to prefer me, father?

Aldo. Let me see—­let me see:—­Before George, I have it, and it comes as pat too!  Go me to the very judge that sate upon him; it is an amorous, impotent old magistrate, and keeps admirably.  I saw him leer upon you from the bench:  He will tell you what is sweeter than strawberries and cream, before you part.

  Enter Mrs TERMAGANT.

Mrs Term. O father, I think I shall go mad.

Aldo. You are of the violentest temper, daughter Termagant!  When had you a business last?

Mrs Term. The last I had was with young Caster, that son-of-a-whore gamester:  he brought me to taverns, to draw in young cullies, while he bubbled them at play; and, when he had picked up a considerable sum, and should divide, the cheating dog would sink my share, and swear,—­Damn him, he won nothing.