My patch, my
patch. [_Looking about_, _and gathering up his things_.]

LAET. My jewel, art thou there?--No matter for your patch.--You s'an't
tum in, Nykin--run into my chamber, quickly, quickly--You s'an't tum in.

FOND. Nay, prithee, dear, i'feck I'm in haste.

LAET. Then I'll let you in. [_Opens the door_.]

SCENE XVI.

LAETITIA, FONDLEWIFE, SIR JOSEPH.

FOND. Kiss, dear--I met the master of the ship by the way, and I must
have my papers of accounts out of your cabinet.

LAET. Oh, I'm undone! [_Aside_.]

SIR JO. Pray, first let me have fifty pound, good Alderman, for I'm in
haste.

FOND. A hundred has already been paid by your order. Fifty? I have the
sum ready in gold in my closet.

SCENE XVII.

LAETITIA, SIR JOSEPH.

SIR JO. Agad, it's a curious, fine, pretty rogue; I'll speak to
her.--Pray, Madam, what news d'ye hear?

LAET. Sir, I seldom stir abroad. [_Walks about in disorder_.]

SIR JO. I wonder at that, Madam, for 'tis most curious fine weather.

LAET. Methinks 't has been very ill weather.

SIR JO. As you say, madam, 'tis pretty bad weather, and has been so a
great while.

SCENE XVIII.

[_To them_] FONDLEWIFE.

FOND. Here are fifty pieces in this purse, Sir Joseph; if you will tarry
a moment, till I fetch my papers, I'll wait upon you down-stairs.

LAET. Ruined, past redemption! what shall I do--ha! this fool may be of
use. (Aside.) [_As_ FONDLEWIFE _is going into the chamber_, _she runs
to_ SIR JOSEPH, _almost pushes him down_, _and cries out_.] Stand off,
rude ruffian. Help me, my dear. O bless me! Why will you leave me
alone with such a Satyr?

FOND. Bless us! What's the matter? What's the matter?

LAET. Your back was no sooner turned, but like a lion he came open
mouthed upon me, and would have ravished a kiss from me by main force.

SIR JO. O Lord! Oh, terrible! Ha, ha, ha. Is your wife mad, Alderman?

LAET. Oh! I'm sick with the fright; won't you take him out of my sight?

FOND. O traitor! I'm astonished. O bloody-minded traitor!

SIR JO. Hey-day! Traitor yourself. By the Lord Harry, I was in most
danger of being ravished, if you go to that.

FOND. Oh, how the blasphemous wretch swears! Out of my house, thou son
of the whore of Babylon; offspring of Bel and the Dragon.--Bless us!
ravish my wife! my Dinah! Oh, Shechemite! Begone, I say.

SIR JO. Why, the devil's in the people, I think.

SCENE XIX.