Clare. She is the last is left me to bestow;
And her I mean to dedicate to God.
O. Moun. You do, sir?
Clare. Sir, sir, I do; she is mine own.
O. Moun. And pity she is so:
Damnation dog thee and thy wretched pelf! [Aside.
Clare. Not thou, Mounchensey, shalt bestow my child.
O. Moun. Neither shall'st[277] thou bestow her where thou meanest.
Clare. What wilt thou do?
O. Moun. No matter, let that be;
I will do that, perhaps, shall anger thee:
Thou hast wrong'd my love, and, by God's blessed angel,
Thou shalt well know it.
Clare. Tut, brave not me.
O. Moun. Brave thee, base churl! were't not for manhood sake—
I say no more, but that there be some by
Whose blood is hotter than ours is,
Which, being stirr'd might make us both repent
This foolish meeting. But, Harry Clare,
Although thy father hath abus'd my friendship,
Yet I love thee—I do, my noble boy,
I do, i' faith.