Bar. That would betray his life to satisfy
His avarice, not justice of the law.
Enter Dotterel, Lady Whimsey.
Here comes another piece of matrimony,
That may be shortly.
Euph. 'Tis better far than t'other:
They are the last couple in hell.
Dot. Save you, gallants!
Bar. You are the gallant, sir, that on your arm
Do wear the trophies of a conquer'd lady.
Euph. Madam, I had almost mistaken my salutation,
And bid God give you joy.
Lady W. Of what, I prythee?
Euph. Of this young gallant, call him by what name
Or title you are pleas'd, husband or servant.
Bar. He may be both, sir: he is not the first
Has been a husband and a servant too.