Jer. Why? why, forsooth? What d'ye mean, if you go there too?
Wid. Thou art but my base child; and according to the law, canst not inherit it. Nay, thou art not so much as bastard eigne.[123]
Jer. What, what, am I then the son of a whore, mother?
Wid. The law says—
Free. Madam, we know what the law says; but have a care what you say. Do not let your passion, to ruin your son, ruin your reputation.
Wid. Hang reputation, sir! am not I a widow? have no husband, nor intend to have any? Nor would you, I suppose, now have me for a wife. So I think now I'm revenged on my son and you, without marrying, as I told you.
Free. But consider, madam.
Jer. What, have you no shame left in you, mother?
Wid. Wonder not at it, major. 'Tis often the poor pressed widow's case, to give up her honour to save her jointure; and seem to be a light woman, rather than marry: as some young men, they say, pretend to have the filthy disease, and lose their credit with most women, to avoid the importunities of some. [Aside to Oldfox.
Free. But one word with you, madam.