Sir Row. Well, if he be gone—Peace be with him: and, ’Ifaks, Sweet-heart, we’ll marry, and beget new Sons and Daughters—but—but I shall ne’er beget another George. Cries.
Ter. This is but a Scurvy Tune for your hymenical Song, Sir.
Sir Row. Alas! Mrs. Teresia, my Instrument is untun’d, and good for nothing now but to be hung upon the Willows.
Cry within. Murder, Murder, Murder!
Enter Footman. [Sir Merlin with his Sword] drawn, and Sir Morgan.
Sir Row. What’s here, my Rogue?
Twang. What’s the matter, Gentlemen, that ye enter the House in this hostile manner?
Sir Morg. What, Mr. Twang, de see!
Sir Mer. Ay, ay—stand by Divinity—and know, that we, the Pillars of the Nation, are come, de see—to ravish.
L. Blun. Oh, my dear Sir Morgan. Embraces him.