Mar. I did praise, I confess, I did praise him; I said
he was a fool, an unthrift, a true whoremaster, I confess; a constant drab-keeper, I confess: but what, the wind is turn’d!
Fra. It is, it is, vile woman!—reprobate woman!—naughty woman! it is: vat sall become of mine poor flesh now? mine body must turn Turk for twopence. O Divela, life o’ mine art! ick sall be reveng’d!—do ten thousand hell damn me, ick sall have the rogue trote cut! and his love, and his friend, and all his affinity, sall smart! sall dye! sall hang! Now legion of devil seize him!—de gran pest, St. Anthony’s fire, and de hot Neapolitan poc, rot him! 52
Enter Freevill and Malheureux.
Free. Franceschina!
Fra. O mine seet, dear’st, kindest, mine loving! O mine towsand, ten towsand, delicated, petty[41] seet art!
[Cantat Gallicè.
A[h] mine, a[h] dear leevest affection!
Free. Why, monkey, no fashion in you! Give entertain to my friend.
Fra. Ick sall make de most of you dat courtesy may. Aunt Mary, Mettre Faugh, stools, stools, for des gallants! Mine mettre sing non oder song,[42]—frolic, frolic, sir!— 61