And. I come in time to take possession of th'Office you assign me; hold the door! alas, 'tis nothing for a simple man to stay without, when a deep understanding holds conference within, say with his Wife: a trifle, Sir. I know I hold my Farm by Cuckolds Tenure; you are Lord o'th' Soil, Sir. Lilly is a Weft, a stray, she's yours to use, Sir, I claim no interest in her.
Bri. Art thou serious? speak, honest Andrew, since thou hast o'erheard us, and wink at small faults, man; I'm but a pidlar, a little will serve my turn; thou'lt find enough when I've my belly full: Wilt thou be private and silent?
And. By all means, I'll only have a Ballad made of't, sung to some lewd Tune, and the name of it shall be Justice Trap; it will sell rarely with your Worships name, and Lilly's on the top.
Bri. Seek not the ruine o' my reputation, Andrew.
And. 'Tis for your credit, Monsieur Brisac, printed in Capital Letters, then pasted upon all the posts in Paris.
Bri. No mercy, Andrew?
And. O, it will proclaim you from the City to the Court, and prove Sport Royal.
Bri. Thou shalt keep thy Farm.
Mir. He does afflict him rarely.
And. You trouble me. Then his intent arriving, the vizard of his hypocrisie pull'd of[f] to the Judge criminal.