Sir J. B. Pay you—what the devil, do you think I'll give you fifty pounds, because one horse thrusts his nose out before another? Doll, that's a rogue!
Tall. Rogue! Cut while you're well—I'll make no more words—that bet was done and done, and if you don't pay me, I'll post you at Tattersal's—indeed, I will, Sir Jackey, my lad.
Miss Dolly B. Never mind old Fogrum—run away with me.
[Apart to Tallyho.
Sir J. B. Oh, very well—there—[Gives a Note.] by winning fifty pounds, you lose my daughter, and fourscore thousand; and now post that at Tattersal's, Tally, my lad—Dolly, child, go to your mamma.
Miss Dolly B. I won't—I won't go to my mamma—I'll meet you, bye and bye, at the Colonel's.
[Apart to Tallyho.
Sir J. B. You won't—you shall, hussy!
Miss Dolly B. I won't—I won't—[Crying and sobbing.] Oh, the cruelty of old tough fathers, to force young, tender maidens, away from the sweet, amiable swains, that so dearly love them! oh! oh! oh!
Sir J. B. Go in there, you jade! [Forces her off.] how cunning you look now, Tally, my lad!