Tom. Her husband is recover'd.
Seb. A witty moral: have at ye once more Thomas,
The Sisters of St. Albons, all five; dat boy,
Dat's mine own boy.
Dor. Now out upon thee Monster.
Tom. Still hoping of your pardon.
Seb. There needs none man:
A straw on pardon: prethee need no pardon:
I'le aske no more, nor think no more of marriage,
For o' my conscience I shall be thy Cuckold:
There's some good yet left in him: bear your self well,
You may recover me, there's twenty pound Sir,
I see some sparkles which may flame again,
You may eat with me when you please, you know me. [Exit Seb.
Dor. Why do you lye so damnably, so foolishly?
Tom. Do'st thou long to have thy head broke? hold thy peace
And do as I would have thee, or by this hand
I'le kill thy Parrat, hang up thy small hand,
And drink away thy dowry to a penny.
Dor. Was ever such a wilde Asse?
Tom. Prethee be quiet.
Dor. And do'st thou think men will not beat thee monstrously
For abusing their wives and children?