Moll. Good sir, what rashness was parent to this madness? marry an old man—Ear-lack the informer!
Blood. Madness! You're a whore.
Ear. Is she a whore, Sim?
Sim. She must be your wife, I tell——-
Blood. An arrant whore, to refuse Master Innocent Ear-lack of Rogue-land!—that for his dwelling: next, that he doth inform now and then against enormities, and hath been blanketed—it may be, pumped in's time; yet the world knows he does it not out of need: he's of mighty means, but takes delight now and then to trot up and down to avoid idleness, you whore.
Sim. Good sir!
Ear. Pray, father!
Moll. This wound wants oil. Good sir, in all my paths
I will make you my guide; I was only startled
With the suddenness of the marriage,
In that I knew that this deserving gentleman
And I had never so much conference,
Whereby this coal of Paphos—by the rhetoric
Of his love-stealing, heart-captivating language—
Might be blown into a flame.
Ear. Does she take tobacco, father?
Blood. No, no, man; these are out of ballads; she has all the Garland of Good-will[48] by heart.