L. Youth. Truly, Sir Rowland, that I intend.
Sir Row. But where’s the Bride-groom, Madam?
Enter Roger.
How now, Roger, what, no news yet of George?
Rog. Alas! none, Sir, none, till the Rubbish be removed.
Sir Row. Rubbish—What—what, is George become the Rubbish of the World then? Weeps.
Twang. Why, Man is but Dust, as a Man may say, Sir.
L. Blun. But are you sure, Roger, my Jewel, my Sir Moggy escap’d?
Rog. The Watch drew him out of the Cellar-window, Madam.
L. Youth. How, Mr. Twang, the young Gentleman burnt—Oh— Falls in a Chair.