Mood. Is he here already, say'st thou? Which is he?
Rose. That sun-burned gentleman.
Mood. My dear boy, Anthony, do I see thee again before I die? Welcome, welcome.
Sir Mart. My dear father, I know it is you by instinct; for, methinks, I am as like you, as if I were spit out of your mouth.
Rose. Keep it up, I beseech your lordship.
[Aside to the Lord.
Lord. He's wonderous like indeed.
L. Dupe. The very image of him.
Mood. Anthony, you must salute all this company: This is my Lord Dartmouth, this my Lady Dupe, this her niece Mrs Christian.
[He salutes them.
Sir Mart. And that's my sister; methinks I have a good resemblance of her too: Honest sister, I must needs kiss you, sister.
Warn. This fool will discover himself; I foresee it already by his carriage to her.