Wid. Mark him, good sir; methinks he says he has married Mary Bloodhound.
Anc. Hang him, he's mad!
Ran. Souns, make tog of Randalls? come out here, Maries. Look, here was Mary Ploodhounds.
Enter Maid and Hugh.
Now I pray tumble down of hur marrow-pones, and ask hur father plessing?
Alex. This! why this is your maid, widow.
Ear. This is Mary the widow's maid, man.
Alex. And here is Mary Bloodhound, my choleric shred of Cadwallader, married to this gentleman, who has a hundred a year dangling at your girdle there.
Wid. I pray, mistress, are you married to this gentleman?