_Fash_. How dost know?
_Lory_. Because, sir, I have wondered at you so often, I can
wonder at you no more.
_Fash_. No! what wouldst thou say, if a qualm of conscience
should spoil my design?
_Lory_. I would eat my words, and wonder more than ever.
_Fash_. Why faith, Lory, though I have played many a roguish
trick, this is so full-grown a cheat, I find I must take pains to
come up to't--I have scruples.
_Lory_. They are strong symptoms of death. If you find they
increase, sir, pray make your will.
_Fash_. No, my conscience shan't starve me neither: but thus
far I'll listen to it. Before I execute this project, I'll try my
brother to the bottom. If he has yet so much humanity about him
as to assist me--though with a moderate aid--I'll drop my project
at his feet, and show him how I can do for him much more than
what I'd ask he'd do for me. This one conclusive trial of him I
resolve to make.

Succeed or fail, still victory is my lot;
If I subdue his heart,'tis well--if not,
I will subdue my conscience to my plot.

[_Exeunt_.]




ACT II.