L. Squeam. Ha! ha I ha! I told you so.
Mrs. Squeam. Foh! a kiss of his—
Sir Jasp. Has no more hurt in't than one of my spaniel's.
Mrs. Squeam. Nor no more good neither.
Quack. I will now believe anything he tells me. [Aside.
Enter Pinchwife.
L. Fid. O lord, here's a man! Sir Jasper, my mask, my mask! I would not be seen here for the world.
Sir Jasp. What, not when I am with you?
L. Fid. No, no, my honour—let's be gone.
Mrs. Squeam. Oh grandmother, let's be gone; make haste, make haste, I know not how he may censure us.