Sir Oliv. Hey! what the devil! sure, you wouldn’t sell your forefathers, would you?

Chas. Surf. Every man of them, to the best bidder.

Sir Oliv. What! your great-uncles and aunts?

Chas. Surf. Ay, and my great-grandfathers and grandmothers too.

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Now I give him up!—[Aloud.] What the plague, have you no bowels for your own kindred? Odd’s life! do you take me for Shylock in the play, that you would raise money of me on your own flesh and blood?

Chas. Surf. Nay, my little broker, don’t be angry: what need you care, if you have your money’s worth?

Sir Oliv. Well, I’ll be the purchaser: I think I can dispose of the family canvas.—[Aside.] Oh, I’ll never forgive him this! never!

Re-enter Careless.

Care. Come, Charles, what keeps you?

Chas. Surf. I can’t come yet. I’faith, we are going to have a sale above stairs; here’s little Premium will buy all my ancestors!

Care. Oh, burn your ancestors!

Chas. Surf. No, he may do that afterwards, if he pleases. Stay, Careless, we want you: egad, you shall be auctioneer—so come along with us.

Care. Oh, have with you, if that’s the case. I can handle a hammer as well as a dice box! Going! going!

Sir Oliv. Oh, the profligates!

[Aside.

Chas. Surf. Come, Moses, you shall be appraiser, if we want one. Gad’s life, little Premium, you don’t seem to like the business?

Sir Oliv. Oh, yes, I do, vastly! Ha! ha! ha! yes, yes, I think it a rare joke to sell one’s family by auction—ha! ha!—[Aside.] Oh, the prodigal!

Chas. Surf. To be sure! when a man wants money, where the plague should he get assistance, if he can’t make free with his own relations?

[Exeunt.

Sir Oliv. I’ll never forgive him; never! never!