SCAR. Bastards!
CHIL. Father!
BUT. What heart not pities this?
SCAR. Even in your cradle, you were accurs'd of heaven,
Thou an adultress in my married arms.
And they that made the match, bawds to thy lust:
Ay, now you hang the head; shouldst have done so before,
Then these had not been bastards, thou a whore.
BUT. I can brook't no longer: sir, you do not well in this.
SCAR. Ha, slave!
BUT. 'Tis not the aim of gentry to bring forth
Such harsh unrelish'd fruit unto their wines[428],
And to their pretty—pretty children by my troth.
SCAR. How, rascal!
BUT. Sir, I must tell you, your progenitors,
Two of the which these years were servant to,
Had not such mists before their understanding,
Thus to behave themselves.
SCAR. And you'll control me, sir!