oundrils! I'll prick your Jackets for you.

Sir _Jeal._ Z'ounds, Sirrah, I'll be Reveng'd on you.
(_Beats _Marplot_._

Sir _Geo._ Ay, there your Vengeance is due; Ha, ha.

_Marpl._ Why, what do you beat me for? I ha'nt marry'd your Daughter.

Sir _Jeal._ Rascals! why don't you knock him down?

_Serv._ We are afraid of his Sword, Sir; if you'll take that from him,
we'll knock him down presently.

_Enter _Charles_ and _Isabinda_._

Sir _Jeal._ Seize her then.

_Char._ Rascals, retire; she's my Wife, touch her if you dare, I'll make
Dogs meat of you.

Sir _Jeal._ Ah! downright _English_:--Oh, oh, oh, oh!

_Enter Sir _Francis Gripe_, _Mirand_, _Patch_, _Scentwell_,
and _Whisper_._

Sir _Fran._ Into the House of Joy we Enter without knocking: Ha! I think
'tis the House of Sorrow, Sir _Jealous_.

Sir _Jeal._ Oh Sir _Francis!_ are you come? What was this your
Contrivance, to abuse, trick, and chouse me of my Child!

Sir _Fran._ My Contrivance! what do you mean?

Sir _Jeal._ No, you don't know your Son there in _Spanish_ Habit.

Sir _Fran._ How! my Son in _Spanish_ Habit. Sirrah, you'll come to be
hang'd; get out of my sight, ye Dog! get out of my sight.

Sir _Jeal._ Get out of your sight, Sir! Get out with your Bags; let's
see what you'll give him now to maintain my Daughter on.

Sir _Fran._ Give him! He shall be never the better for a Penny of
mine--and you might have look'd after your Daughter better, Sir
_Jealous_. Trick'd, quotha! Egad, I think you design'd to trick me: But
look ye, Gentlemen, I believe I shall trick you both. This Lady is my
Wife, do you see? And my Estate shall descend only to the Heirs of her
Body.

Sir _Geo._ Lawfully begotten by me--I shall be extremely oblig'd to you,
Sir _Francis_.

Sir _Fran._ Ha, ha, ha, ha, poor Sir _George!_ You see your Project was
of no use. Does not your Hundred Pound stick in your Stomach? Ha, ha,
ha.

Sir _Geo._ No faith, Sir _Francis_, this Lady has given me a Cordial for
that.
(_Takes her by the Hand._

Sir _Fran._ Hold, Sir, you have nothing to say to this Lady.

Sir _Geo._ Nor you nothing to do with my Wife, Sir.

Sir _Fran._ Wife, Sir!

_Miran._ Ay really, _Guardian_, 'tis even so. I hope you'll forgive my
first Offence.

Sir _Fran._ What have you chous'd me out of my Consent, and your
Writings then, Mistress, ha?

_Miran._ Out of nothing but my own, _Guardian_.

Sir _Jeal._ Ha, ha, ha, 'tis some Comfort at least to se