Maria. You have jilted yourself, sir;—nothing but excess of dotage and self-conceit could have let you impose on yourself in such a manner.
Frankton. And may I then hope—
Maria. Hope?—Oh, yes, sir;—you have my permission to hope for anything you please.
Charles. And you, madam, the disposition to gratify his hopes, I fancy.
Loveyet. I fancy you lie, sir; and you sha'n't have Harriet, for your impertinence.
Charles. Excuse me, father;—it is not in your power to prevent that;—the happy deed is already executed.
Loveyet. 'Zounds! that's true!—and, what is still worse, the other deed is executed too.—Fire and fury! All is lost, for the sake of that inveigling, perfidious young Syren. Ugh, ugh, ugh.
Trueman. [Burlesquing what Loveyet has said in a former scene.] "'Sdeath, sir! I tell you I am but two and forty years old: she sha'n't be more than thirty odd, sir; and she shall be ten years younger than I am too.—A man of five and forty, old, forsooth!" Ha, ha, ha.
Loveyet. Perdition! Is this what I have come to at last?—Despis'd,—betray'd,—laugh'd at,—supplanted by a puppy,—[Pointing to Frankton]—trick'd out of my money by a graceless, aristocratic son,—I—I'll—I'll go hang myself.
[Exit in a passion.