MISS. But I’m sure it is not so, for I’ll speak sooner than you should believe that; and I’ll speak truth, though one should always tell a lie to a man; and I don’t care, let my father do what he will; I’m too big to be whipt, so I’ll tell you plainly, I don’t like you, nor love you at all, nor never will, that’s more: so there’s your answer for you; and don’t trouble me no more, you ugly thing. BEN. Look you, young woman, you may learn to give good words, however. I spoke you fair, d’ye see, and civil. As for your love or your liking, I don’t value it of a rope’s end; and mayhap I like you as little as you do me: what I said was in obedience to father. Gad, I fear a whipping no more than you do. But I tell you one thing, if you should give such language at sea, you’d have a cat o’ nine tails laid cross your shoulders. Flesh! who are you? You heard t’other handsome young woman speak civilly to me of her own accord. Whatever you think of yourself, gad, I don’t think you are any more to compare to her than a can of small-beer to a bowl of punch. MISS. Well, and there’s a handsome gentleman, and a fine gentleman, and a sweet gentleman, that was here that loves me, and I love him; and if he sees you speak to me any more, he’ll thrash your jacket for you, he will, you great sea-calf. BEN. What, do you mean that fair-weather spark that was here just now? Will he thrash my jacket? Let’n,—let’n. But an he comes near me, mayhap I may giv’n a salt eel for’s supper, for all that. What does father mean to leave me alone as soon as I come home with such a dirty dowdy? Sea-calf? I an’t calf enough to lick your chalked face, you cheese-curd you:—marry thee? Oons, I’ll marry a Lapland witch as soon, and live upon selling contrary winds and wrecked vessels. MISS. I won’t be called names, nor I won’t be abused thus, so I won’t. If I were a man [_cries_]—you durst not talk at his rate. No, you durst not, you stinking tar-barrel. SCENE VIII. [_To them_] MRS. FORESIGHT _and_ MRS. FRAIL. MRS. FORE. They have quarrelled, just as we could wish. BEN. Tar-barrel? Let your sweetheart there call me so, if he’ll take your part, your Tom Essence, and I’ll say something to him; gad, I’ll lace his musk-doublet for him, I’ll make him stink: he shall smell more like a weasel than a civet-cat, afore I ha’ done with ’en. MRS. FORE. Bless me, what’s the matter, Miss? What, does she cry? Mr. Benjamin, what have you done to her? BEN. Let her cry: the more she cries the less she’ll—she has been gathering foul weather in her mouth, and now it rains out at her eyes. MRS. FORE. Come, Miss, come along with me, and tell me, poor child.