Lucy. Oh! whither do you go, godmother? will you leave me alone?
Mrs. Joyn. The gentleman will not hurt you; you may venture yourself with him alone.
Lucy. I think I may, godmother.—[Exit Mrs. Joyner.] What! will you lock me in, sir? don't lock me in, sir. [Gripe, fumbling at the door, locks it.
Gripe. 'Tis a private lesson, I must teach you, fair.
Lucy. I don't see your fiddle, sir; where is your little kit?
Gripe. I'll show it thee presently, sweetest.—[Sets a chair against the door.]—Necessity, mother of invention!—Come, my dearest. [Takes her in his arms.
Lucy. What do you mean, sir? don't hurt me, sir, will you—Oh! oh! you will kill me! Murder! murder!—Oh! oh!—help! help! oh!
The door is broken open; enter Mrs. Crossbite, and her Landlord, and his 'Prentice, in aprons.
Mrs. Cros. What, murder my daughter, villain!