Ter. Alas! my Grandmother faints with your ill News.—Good Sir Rowland, comfort her, and dry your Eyes.
Sir Row. Burnt, Madam! No, no, only the House fell on him, or so— Feigns Chearfulness, and speaks to Lady Youthly.
L. Youth. How! the House fell on him—Oh!
Sir Row. Ah, Madam, that’s all; why, the young Rogue has , Madam.
L. Youth. Alas, good Man: What a Mercy ’tis, Mr. Twang, to have a Back like an Elephant!
L. Blun. Of what wonderful Use it is upon occasion—
Sir Row. Ay—but—but I shall never see him more, Back nor Breast. Weeps.
Twang. Good Sir, discomfort not my Lady—Consider Man’s a Flower—
Sir Row. Ay, but George was such a Flower! He was, Mr. Twang, he was the very Pink of Prentices. Ah! what a rare rampant Lord Mayor he wou’d have made! And what a swinging Sheriff— Cries.
Ter. What, cry, so near your Wedding-day, Sir Rowland?