Wor. So pressing to be gone, sir?—I find her fortune will give her the same airs with Melinda, and then Plume and I may laugh at one another.
Bal. Like enough; women are as subject to pride as men are; and why mayn't great women as well as great men forget their old acquaintance? But come, where's this young fellow? I love him so well, it would break the heart of me to think him a rascal.—I am glad my daughter's gone fairly off though.—[Aside.] Where does the captain quarter?
Wor. At Horton's; I am to meet him there two hours hence, and we should be glad of your company.
Bal. Your pardon, dear Worthy! I must allow a day or two to the death of my son. The decorum of mourning is what we owe the world, because they pay it to us; afterwards I'm yours over a bottle, or how you will.
Wor. Sir, I'm your humble servant.
[Exeunt apart.
SCENE III.
The Street.
Enter Kite, with Costar Pearmain in one Hand, and Thomas Appletree in the other, drunk.
| Kite sings. |
| Our 'prentice Tom may now refuse |
| To wipe his scoundrel master's shoes, |
| For now he's free to sing and play |
| Over the hills and far away. |
| Over, &c. |
| [The Mob sing the Chorus. |
| We shall lead more happy lives |
| By getting rid of brats and wives, |
| That scold and brawl both night and day, |
| Over the hills and far away. |
| Over, &c. |