Enter Sir Rowland, and Servants.
Sir Row. A Pox on your Son, and mine to boot; they have set all the Sack-Butts a Flaming in the Cellar, thence the Mischief began. Timothy, Roger, Jeffrey, my Money-Trunks, ye Rogues! my money-Trunks!
L. Blun. My Son, good Roger! my own Sir Moggy!
Sir Row. The ten thousand Pounds, ye Rascal, in the Iron Trunk, that was to be paid Mr. Welborn for Olivia’s Portion. Exit.
L. Blun. Oh my Son! my Son!—run to the Parson, Sam, and let him send the Church-Buckets. Oh, some help! some help!
Enter Manage.
Man. Oh, Heavens! my Lady Mirtilla’s Chamber’s all on Flame.
Enter Britton.
Geo. Ha,—the Prince! I had forgot his Danger.
Man. Ah! look up, and see how it burns.