Sir Morg. That’s a hard Case, Sir, that a Man must lose his Wife, because another has more Right to her than himself; Is that Law, Sir?
Prince. Lover’s Law, Sir.
L. Blun. Ay, ay, Son, ’tis the Fashion to marry one Week, and separate the next. I’ll set you a President for it my self.
In this time Welborn kneels with Olivia; Sir Rowland takes ’em up, and kisses ’em.
Sir Morg. Nay, if it be the Fashion, I’ll e’en into the Country, and be merry with my Tenants, and Hawk, and Hunt, and Horse-match.
Prince. But now, Sir, I’ll resign my Right to you, and content myself with the Honour to have preserv’d her from the Fire. Prince delivers Mirtilla to Sir Morgan, who receives her.
Sir Morg. As gad shall sa’ me, Sir, you’re a civil Person; and now I find you can endure a Woman, Sir, I’ll give you leave to visit her.
Sir Row. Well, since we’re all agreed, and that the Fiddles are here, adsnigs, we’ll have a Dance, Sweet-heart, though thou hast out-witted me.
Takes Teresia, George takes Lady Youthly, &c. After the Dance, Lady Youthly weeps.
Geo. What, weeping yet? Here, Mr. Twang, take the Lady to your Care; in these Cases, there’s nothing like the Consolation of your young Chaplain.