Sir Char. So have I. Nay, Gad, an you be for the nearest way to the Wood, the sober discreet way of loving, I am sorry for ye, look ye. [He begins to undress.
L. Gal. Hold, Sir, what mean you?
Sir Char. Only to go to Bed, that’s all. [Still undressing.
L. Gal. Hold, hold, or I’ll call out.
Sir Char. Ay, do, call up a Jury of your Female Neighbours, they’ll be for me, d’ye see, bring in the Bill Ignoramus, though I am no very true blue Protestant neither; therefore dispatch, or—
L. Gal. Hold, are you mad? I cannot promise you to night.
Sir Char. Well, well, I’ll be content with Performance then to night, and trust you for your Promise till to morrow.
Sir Anth. [peeping.] Ah, Rogue! by George, he out-does my
Expectations of him.
L. Gal. What Imposition’s this! I’ll call for help.
Sir. Char. You need not, you’ll do my business better alone. [Pulls her.