Thy wife shall hear of this—she’ll punish thee.
Lut. Oh, moral plague! oh, walking pestilence!
Oh, incarnation of uncleanliness!
You call me knave! Why, hark ye men of sin.
You’ve kings and queens upon that world of yours,
To whom you crawl in apt humility;
Well, sir, there’s not an emperor on earth
Who would not kiss the dust I tread upon,
And I’m the meanest here. Good day to you.
[Exit Lutin.