ANG. ’Tis very true, indeed, uncle. I hope you’ll be my father, and give me.
SIR SAMP. That he shall, or I’ll burn his globes. Body o’ me, he shall be thy father, I’ll make him thy father, and thou shalt make me a father, and I’ll make thee a mother, and we’ll beget sons and daughters enough to put the weekly bills out of countenance.
SCAN. Death and hell! Where’s Valentine?
SCENE X.
Sir Sampson, Angelica, Foresight, Mrs. Foresight, Ben, Buckram.
MRS. FORE. This is so surprising.
SIR SAMP. How! What does my aunt say? Surprising, aunt? Not at all for a young couple to make a match in winter: not at all. It’s a plot to undermine cold weather, and destroy that usurper of a bed called a warming-pan.
MRS. FORE. I’m glad to hear you have so much fire in you, Sir Sampson.
BEN. Mess, I fear his fire’s little better than tinder; mayhap it will only serve to light up a match for somebody else. The young woman’s a handsome young woman, I can’t deny it: but, father, if I might be your pilot in this case, you should not marry her. It’s just the same thing as if so be you should sail so far as the Straits without provision.
SIR SAMP. Who gave you authority to speak, sirrah? To your element, fish, be mute, fish, and to sea, rule your helm, sirrah, don’t direct me.