Why, the devil's in the young fellows of this age; they are ten times worse than they were in my time: had he made my daughter a whore, and forswore it, like a gentleman, I could almost have pardoned it; but to tell tales beforehand is monstrous.—Hang it! I can fetch down a woodcock or a snipe, and why not a hat and cockade? I have a case of good pistols, and have a good mind to try.
Enter Worthy.
Worthy, your servant.
Wor. I'm sorry, sir, to be the messenger of ill news.
Bal. I apprehend it, sir; you have heard that my son Owen is past recovery.
Wor. My letters say he's dead, sir.
Bal. He's happy, and I am satisfied: the stroke of Heaven I can bear; but injuries from men, Mr. Worthy, are not so easily supported.
Wor. I hope, sir, you are under no apprehensions of wrong from any body.
Bal. You know I ought to be.
Wor. You wrong my honour, in believing I could know any thing to your prejudice, without resenting it as much as you should.