Sir Char. Ah, Madam, may I presume to tell you—
Sir Anth. Ah, Pox, that was stark naught! he begins like a Fore-man o’th’ Shop, to his Master’s Daughter.
Wild. How, Charles Meriwill acquainted with my Widow!
Sir Char. Why do you wear that scorn upon your Face?
I’ve nought but honest meaning in my Passion,
Whilst him you favour so profanes your Beauties,
In scorn of Marriage and Religious Rites,
Attempts the ruin of your sacred Honour.
L. Gal. Hah, Wilding boast my Love! [Aside.
Sir Anth. The Devil take him, my Nephew’s quite spoil’d!
Why, what a Pox has he to do with Honour now?
L. Gal. Pray leave me, Sir.—
Wild. Damn it, since he knows all, I’ll boldly own my flame. You take a liberty I never gave you, Sir.
Sir Char. How, this from thee! nay, then I must take more.
And ask you where you borrow’d that Brutality,
T’ approach that Lady with your saucy Passion.
Sir Anth. Gad, well done, Charles! here must be sport anon.