Rasor. Imprimis, Your Ladyship's; for a damnable Lie made upon your spotless Virtue, and set to the Tune of Spring-Garden. [To Sir John.] Next, at my generous Master's Feet I bend, for interrupting his more noble Thoughts with Phantoms of disgraceful Cuckoldom. [To Const.] Thirdly, I to this Gentleman apply, for making him the Hero of my Romance. [To Heart.] Fourthly, your Pardon, noble Sir, I ask, for clandestinely marrying you, without either bidding of Banns, Bishop's Licence, Friends Consent——or your own Knowledge. [To Bel.] And, lastly, to my good young Lady's Clemency I come, for pretending the Corn was sow'd in the Ground, before ever the Plough had been in the Field.
Sir John. [Aside.] So that, after all, 'tis a moot point, whether I am a Cuckold or not.
Bel. Well, Sir, upon Condition you confess all, I'll pardon you myself, and try to obtain as much from the rest of the Company. But I must know, then, who 'tis has put you upon all this Mischief?
Rasor. Satan, and his Equipage; Woman tempted me, Lust weakened me——and so the Devil over-came me; as fell Adam, so fell I.
Bel. Then pray, Mr. Adam, will you make us acquainted with your Eve?
Rasor. [To Madam.] Unmask, for the Honour of France.
All. Madamoiselle!
Madam. Me ask ten tousand Pardon of all de good Company.
Sir John. Why, this Mystery thickens, instead of clearing up. [To Rasor.] You Son of a Whore, you, put us out of our Pain.