C. Fred. What is the matter?
Pen. I'll ask, my lord. What is the matter, sir?
Sir J. Wor. Some idle words, my lord, 't may be, have pass'd
'Twixt Scudmore and my daughter heretofore;
But he has dreamt 'em things of consequence.
Pen. Pish! nothing else? set forward.
Nev. By your leave.
Scud. Can there be such a soul in such a shape?
My love is subject of such misery,
Such strange impossibilities and misfortune,
That men will laugh at me, when I relate
The story of it, and conceive I lie.
Why, madam that shall be—lady in posse—do titles,
Honours, and fortunes make you so forgetful?
Bel. You are insolent—nay, strangely saucy, sir,
To wrong me in this public fashion.
Sir. J. Wor. Sirrah, go to: there's law.
Scud. There is, indeed,
And conscience too: old Worldly, thou hast one;
But for the other, wild Virginia,
Black Afric, or the shaggy Scythia,
Must send it over as a merchandise,
Ere thou show any here.
Pen. My honour'd lord,
Say but the word, I'll force him from the door.