L. Gal. What shall I do? how shall I send him hence? [Aside.
Sir Anth. He shall ne’er drink small Beer more, that’s positive; I’ll burn all’s Books too, they have help’d to spoil him; and sick or well, sound or unsound, Drinking shall be his Diet, and Whoring his Study. [Aside, peeping unseen.
Sir Char. Come, come, no pausing; your Promise, or I’ll to Bed.
[Offers to pull off his Breeches, having pulled off almost all the rest of his Clothes.
L. Gal. What shall I do? here is no Witness near: And to be rid of him
I’ll promise him; he’ll have forgot it in his sober Passion. [Aside.
Hold, I do swear I will—
[He fumbling to undo his Breeches.
Sir Char. What?
L. Gal. Marry you.
Sir Char. When?
L. Gal. Nay, that’s too much—Hold, hold, I will to morrow—Now you are satisfy’d, you will withdraw?
Enter Sir Anth. and Closet.