Sir Anth. See’t! look ye there, ye Rogue—Why, ‘tis all his Fault, Madam. He’s seldom sober; then he has a dozen Wenches in pay, that he may with the more Authority break their Windows. There’s never a Maid within forty Miles of Meriwill-Hall to work a Miracle on, but all are Mothers. He’s a hopeful Youth, I’ll say that for him.
Sir Char. How I have lov’d you, my Despairs shall witness: for I will die to purchase your Content. [She rises.
Sir Anth. Die, a damn’d Rogue! Ay, ay, I’ll disinherit him: A Dog, die, with a Pox! No, he’ll be hang’d first, Madam.
Sir Char. And sure you’ll pity me when I’m dead.
Sir Anth. A curse on him; pity, with a Pox. I’ll give him ne’er a
Souse.
L. Gal. Give me that Essence-bottle. [To Clos.
Sir Char. But for a Recompence of all my Sufferings—
L. Gal. Sprinkle my Handkerchief with Tuberose. [To Clos.
Sir Char. I beg a Favour you’d afford a Stranger.
L. Gal. Sooner, perhaps. What Jewel’s that? [To Clos.