Henry. He told me you had been duped of your fortune by sharpers.
Sir Philip. Aye, he knows that well. Young man, mark me:—This Morrington, whose precepts wear the face of virtue, and whose practice seems benevolence, was the chief of the hellish banditti that ruined me.
Henry. Is it possible?
Sir Philip. That bond you hold in your hand was obtained by robbery.
Henry. Confusion!
Sir Philip. Not by the thief who, encountering you as a man, stakes life against life, but by that most cowardly villain, who, in the moment when reason sleeps, and passion is roused, draws his snares around you, and hugs you to your ruin.
Henry. On your soul, is Morrington that man?
Sir Philip. On my soul, he is.
Henry. Thus, then, I annihilate the act—and thus I tread upon a villain's friendship.
[Tearing the bond.