Bel. Bellmour, or Francis, chuse you which you like, and I am either.
Sir Feeb. Hah, Bellmour! and no Ghost?
Bel. Bellmour—and not your Nephew, Sir.
Sir Feeb. But art alive? Ods bobs, I’m glad on’t, Sirrah;—But are you real, Bellmour?
Bel. As sure as I’m no Ghost.
Gay. We all can witness for him, Sir.
Sir Feeb. Where be the Minstrels, we’ll have a Dance—adod, we will —Ah—art thou there, thou cozening little Chits-face?—a Vengeance on thee—thou madest mean old doting loving Coxcomb—but I forgive thee—and give thee all thy Jewels, and you your Pardon, Sir, so you’ll give me mine; for I find you young Knaves will be too hard for us.
Bel. You are so generous, Sir, that ‘tis almost with grief I receive the Blessing of Leticia.
Sir Feeb. No, no, thou deservest her; she would have made an old fond Blockhead of me, and one way or other you wou’d have had her—ods bobs, you wou’d—
Enter Bearjest, Diana, Pert, Bredwel, and Noisey.