Char. Dead! sure, Sir, you rave. [Turns him about.
Bel. Indeed I do—but yet she’s dead, they say.
Char. How came she dead?
Bel. I kill’d her—ask no more, but leave me. [Turns him about again.
Char. Sir, this is Madman’s Language, and not to be believed.
Bel. Go to—y’are a saucy Boy.
Char. Sir, I’m an angry Boy— But yet can bear much from a Brother’s Mouth; Y’ave lost your sleep: pray, Sir, go home and seek it.
Bel. Home! I have no Home, unless thou mean’st my Grave, And thither I cou’d wish thou wou’d conduct me. [Weeps.
Flaunt. Pray Heaven this young virtuous Fellow don’t spoil all. —Sir, shall I send for a Scrivener to draw the Settlement you promis’d me?
Bel. Do so, and I’ll order him to get it ready.