Ag. Did he say so?
With. Why, something nearly equivalent to it, Agnes. Yet, notwithstanding all this, there is something about thee so unaccountably delightful to him, that, poor as thou art, he will give up the fair hopes of opulence, and the pleasures of freedom, to watch for thee, drudge for thee, pinch himself for thee, if thou wilt have the condescension, in return, to plague and torment him for life.
Ag. Foolish enough indeed, yet heaven bless him for it! What a fortunate woman am I! I sought a disinterested lover, and I have found a most wonderful one.
With. I dare say you think yourself very fortunate.
Ag. And dont you, likewise, my good sir? but you seem displeased at it.
With. You guess rightly enough: I must speak without disguise, Agnes, I am not pleased.
Ag. Ah! his want of fortune—
With. Poo! you know very well I despise all mercenary balancing of property. It is not that which disturbs me. To be the disinterested choice of a worthy man is what every woman, who means to marry at all, would be ambitious of; and a point in regard to her marriage, which a woman of fortune would be unwilling to leave doubtful. But there are men whose passions are of such a violent over-bearing nature, that love in them, may be considered as a disease of the mind; and the ob-
