Mer. How! how! how’s this? wounded in his Honour, fay’ll thou? Tell me the Villain that has defam’d him, and this good old Sword shall slit the Rascal’s Wind-pipe.
Fri. O, Sir, your Daughter, your Daughter, Sir——
Mer. Ha! what’s that? what’s that? is she injur’d too?
Fri. No, no Sir, my falling Tears quite drown my feeble Voice, I cannot utter what I fain would speak—Your Daughter’s false, false to her Bonvile! And by the help of her beloved Summerfield, has robb’d my Friend of all he cou’d call Dear, I mean his Fame.
[Seems to weep.
Mer. A Pox o’ your Crocodile’s Tears. Why, Sirrah, Sirrah, do you call my Daughter Whore? Hey, Swords and Daggers, Blunderbusses and Pistols, shall I bear this? Hark you, you my Friend, and no Friend, what a Kin do you take me to be to this Gentlewoman, Heh?
Fri. Her Father, Sir.
Mer. Audacious Villain, O that I had thee in some private Corner, where none you’d either see or hear us, this Sword shou’d justify my Daughter’s Honour; I’de Whore you with a Pox to you, so I wou’d.
Fri. Your Pardon, Sir, I only did inform you as a Friend, that by your fatherly Admonitions, you might refrain her from her undecent Course.
Mer. Pox o’ your friendly Intelligence.
Fri. The Jewels which her Husband did present her, as the first Sign and Confirmation of the happy Contract, she to my certain Knowledg has given to——