Rod. The Guard, the Guard there;
I must not suffer this, it is too mischievous.
Bart. Light up the Torch, I fear'd this, ha? young Silvio?
How got he in?
1 Sold. The Devil brought him in sure
He came not by us.
Bart. My wife between 'em busling?
Guard, pull him off.
Rod. Now, now, ye feel the misery.
Bart. You, Madam, at an hour so far undecent?
Death, O my soul! this is a foul fault in ye,
Your mothers care abus'd too, Light's to her Chamber,
I am sorry to see this.
Bell. Farewel my Silvio,
And let no danger sink thee.
Sil. Nor death Lady. [Exeunt Bell. Rod.
B[a]rt. Are ye so hot? I shall prepare ye Physick
Will purge ye finely, neatly: you are too fiery,
Think of your prayers, Sir, an you have not forgot 'em;
Can ye flie i' th' air, or creep ye in at key-holes?
I have a Gin will catch ye though you conjur'd:
Take him to Guard to night, to strong and sure Guard;
I'll back to th' Dutchess presently: no less sport serve ye,
Than the Heir to a Dukedom? play at push-pin there Sir?
It was well aim'd, but plague upon't, you shot short,
And that will lose your game.
Sil. I know the loss then. [Exeunt.