Sir Tim. Agen, that was out of a Play—Hark ye, Witch of Endor, hold your prating Tongue, or I shall most well-favour’dly cudgel ye.
Nur. As your Friend the Hostess has it in a Play too, I take it, Ends which you pick up behind the Scenes, when you go to be laught at even by the Player-Women.
Sir Tim. Wilt thou have done? By Fortune, I’ll endure no more—
Nur. Murder, Murder!
Cel. Hold, hold.
Enter Friendlove, Bellmour, Sham and Sharp.
Friend. Read here the worst of News that can arrive, [Gives Bellm. a Letter. —What’s the matter here? Why, how now, Sir Timothy, what, up in Arms with the Women?
Sir Tim. Oh, Ned, I’m glad thou’rt come—never was Tom Dove baited as I have been.
Friend. By whom? my Sister?
Sir Tim. No, no, that old Mastiff there—the young Whelp came not on, thanks be prais’d.