Char. Rascals, retire; she's my Wife, touch her if you dare, I'll make Dogs meat of you.
Sir Jeal. Ah! downright English:— Oh, oh, oh, oh!
Enter Sir Francis Gripe, Mirand, Patch, Scentwell, and Whisper.
Sir Fran. Into the House of Joy we Enter without knocking: Ha! I think 'tis the House of Sorrow, Sir Jealous.
Sir Jeal. Oh Sir Francis! are you come? What was this your Contrivance, to abuse, trick, and chouse me of my Child!
Sir Fran. My Contrivance! what do you mean?
Sir Jeal. No, you don't know your Son there in Spanish Habit.
Sir Fran. How! my Son in Spanish Habit. Sirrah, you'll come to be hang'd; get out of my sight, ye Dog! get out of my sight.
Sir Jeal. Get out of your sight, Sir! Get out with your Bags; let's see what you'll give him now to maintain my Daughter on.
Sir Fran. Give him! He shall be never the better for a Penny of mine—and you might have look'd after your Daughter better, Sir Jealous. Trick'd, quotha! Egad, I think you design'd to trick me: But look ye, Gentlemen, I believe I shall trick you both. This Lady is my Wife, do you see? And my Estate shall descend only to the Heirs of her Body.