Bal. Hold, my Honour’s concerned.
Fran. Not at all, Father mine, she’s my Wife, my Lumber now, and, I hope, I may dispose of my Goods and Chattels—if he takes her we are upon equal terms, for he makes himself my Cuckold, as he has already made me his;—for, if my memory fail me not, we did once upon a time consummate, as my Daughter has it.
Enter Guiliom in his own dress; crying Chimney-Sweep.
Guil. Chimney-sweep,—by your leave, Gentlemen.
Ant. Whither away, Sirrah?
Guil. What’s that to you, Sir?—
Ant. Not to me, Sirrah;—who wou’d you speak with?
Guil. What’s that to you, Sir? why, what a Pox, may not a man speak with his own Lady and Wife?
Cla. Heavens! his Wife! to look for his Wife amongst Persons of Quality!
Car. Kick out the Rascal.