VAL. Sir, I don’t deny it.
SIR SAMP. Sirrah, you’ll be hanged; I shall live to see you go up Holborn Hill. Has he not a rogue’s face? Speak brother, you understand physiognomy, a hanging look to me—of all my boys the most unlike me; he has a damned Tyburn face, without the benefit o’ the clergy.
FORE. Hum—truly I don’t care to discourage a young man,—he has a violent death in his face; but I hope no danger of hanging.
VAL. Sir, is this usage for your son?—For that old weather-headed fool, I know how to laugh at him; but you, sir—
SIR SAMP. You, sir; and you, sir: why, who are you, sir?
VAL. Your son, sir.
SIR SAMP. That’s more than I know, sir, and I believe not.
VAL. Faith, I hope not.
SIR SAMP. What, would you have your mother a whore? Did you ever hear the like? Did you ever hear the like? Body o’ me—
VAL. I would have an excuse for your barbarity and unnatural usage.