Sir Jol. His sempstress! who the devil is his sempstress? Odd, what would I give to know that now! [Aside.
L. Dunce. There was a ring too, which I sent you this afternoon; if that fit not your finger, you may dispose of it some other way, where it may give no occasion of scandal, and you'll do well.
Beau. A ring, madam?
L. Dunce. A small trifle; I suppose Sir Davy delivered it to you, when he returned you your miniature.
Beau. I beseech you, madam!—
L. Dunce. Farewell, you traitor.
Beau. As I hope to be saved, and upon the word of a gentleman—
L. Dunce. Go, you are a false, ungrateful brute; and trouble me no more. [Exit.
Beau. Sir Jolly, Sir Jolly, Sir Jolly.
Sir Jol. Ah, thou rebel!