2nd Whore. You are a precious father indeed, to take no more care of your children! we might be dead for all you, you naughty daddy, you.
Sir Jol. Dead, my poor fubses! odd, I had rather all the relations I have were dead; a-dad, I had. Get you gone, you little devils! Bubbies! oh, law, there's bubbies!—odd, I'll bite 'em; odd, I will!
1st Whore. Nay, fie, papa! I'll swear you'll make me angry, except you carry us and treat us to-night; you have promised me a treat this week; won't you, papa?
2nd Whore. Ay, won't you, dad?
Sir Jol. Odds so, odds so, well remembered! get you gone, don't stay talking: get you gone! Yonder's a great lord, the Lord Beaugard, and his cousin the baron, the count, the marquis, the Lord knows what, Monsieur Courtine, newly come to town, odds so.
3rd Whore. O law, where, daddy, where? O dear, a lord!
1st Whore. Well, you are the purest papa; but where be dey mun, papa?
Sir Jol. I won't tell you, you gipsies, so I won't—except you tickle me: 'sbud they are brave fellows, all tall, and not a bit small; odd, one of 'em has a devilish deal of money.
1st Whore. Oh, dear! but which is he, papa?
2nd Whore. Shan't I be in love with him, daddy?