Char. Is your Lust grown so high—
Bel. Take that— [Strikes him. For naming but so base a thing to me.
Char. I wear a Sword, but not to draw on Mad-men. But since y’are so free, Sir, I demand that Fortune, which by my Father’s Will y’are bound to pay the day after your Wedding-Day; my Sister’s too is due.
Bel. Ha, ha, ha,—Sir Timothy, come hither—who dost think this is?
Sir Tim. A Fidler, perhaps—let him play in the next Room.
Bel. No, my Brother—come to demand his Portion of me; he says I am in leud Company, and, like a Boy, he wou’d correct me.
Sir Tim. Why, this comes of Idleness; thou should’st have bound him
Prentice in time, the Boy would have made a good saucy Taylor.
Char. Sirrah, y’are a Rascal, whom I must thus chastise.
[Kicks him.
[They all draw, and Bellmour stands foremost, and fights
with Charles; the Women run squeaking out, Sir Tim.
Sham, and Sharp sneak behind; Trusty interposes.
Trust. Hold, hold, I beseech you, my dear Masters! Oh, what a fight is this? Two Brothers fighting with each other! Oh, were my old Master alive, this wou’d break his Heart: Oh, Sir, you’ve kill’d your Brother!