Hah—see the Bridegroom! And with him my destin’d Cuckold, old Sir Cautious Fulbank.—Hah, what ail’st thou, Man?
Bel. The Bridegroom! Like Gorgon’s Head he’as turned me into Stone.
Gay. Gorgon’s Head—a Cuckold’s Head—’twas made to graft upon.
Bel. By Heaven, I’ll seize her even at the Altar, And bear her thence in Triumph.
Gay. Ay, and be borne to Newgate in Triumph, and be hanged in
Triumph—’twill be cold Comfort, celebrating your Nuptials in the
Press-Yard, and be wak’d next Morning, like Mr. Barnardine in the
Play—Will you please to rise and be hanged a little, Sir?
Bel. What wouldst thou have me do?
Gay. As many an honest Man has done before thee—Cuckold him— cuckold him.
Bel. What—and let him marry her! She that’s mine by sacred Vows already! By Heaven, it would be flat Adultery in her!
Gay. She’ll learn the trick, and practise it the better with thee.
Bel. Oh Heavens! Leticia marry him! and lie with him!— Here will I stand and see this shameful Woman, See if she dares pass by me to this Wickedness.