Here the Dance, representing Rake-hells, Constable, Watch, &c.
Enter Philip.
Phil. Sir, who do’s your Worship think is arriv’d?
Sir Row. My Son George, I hope, come in the Nick.
Phil. Even so, Sir, from Paris— Exit.
Sir Row. The Prodigal return’d! then kill the fatted Calf.
Enter George drest like a Prentice.
—My own dear Boy, thou art welcome to my Arms, as e’er thy Mother was; for whose dear sake I pardon all thy Follies. [George Kneels.]
Sir Mer. [Ay, Sir], I had a Mother too, or I’m bely’d— Weeping.
Pox take him that he should come just in the nick, as the old Fellow says— Aside.