LADY PLYANT. Have I, I say, preserved myself like a fair sheet of paper for you to make a blot upon?
SIR PAUL. And she shall make a simile with any woman in England.
MEL. I am so amazed, I know not what to say.
SIR PAUL. Do you think my daughter, this pretty creature—gadsbud, she’s a wife for a cherubim!—do you think her fit for nothing but to be a stalking horse, to stand before you, while you take aim at my wife? Gadsbud, I was never angry before in my life, and I’ll never be appeased again.
MEL. Hell and damnation! This is my aunt; such malice can be engendered nowhere else. [Aside.]
LADY PLYANT. Sir Paul, take Cynthia from his sight; leave me to strike him with the remorse of his intended crime.
CYNT. Pray, sir, stay, hear him; I dare affirm he’s innocent.
SIR PAUL. Innocent! Why, hark’ee—come hither, Thy—hark’ee, I had it from his aunt, my sister Touchwood. Gadsbud, he does not care a farthing for anything of thee but thy portion. Why, he’s in love with my wife. He would have tantalised thee, and made a cuckold of thy poor father, and that would certainly have broke my heart. I’m sure, if ever I should have horns, they would kill me; they would never come kindly—I should die of ’em like a child that was cutting his teeth—I should indeed, Thy—therefore come away; but providence has prevented all, therefore come away when I bid you.
CYNT. I must obey.