Sir _Row._ Rubbish--What--what, is _George_ become the Rubbish of the World then? [Weeps. _Twang._ Why, Man is but Dust, as a Man may say, Sir. L. _Blun._ But are you sure, _Roger_, my Jewel, my Sir _Moggy_ escap’d? _Rog._ The Watch drew him out of the Cellar-window, Madam. L. _Youth._ How, Mr. _Twang_, the young Gentleman burnt--Oh-- [Falls in a Chair. _Ter._ Alas! my Grandmother faints with your ill News.--Good Sir _Rowland_, comfort her, and dry your Eyes. Sir _Row._ Burnt, Madam! No, no, only the House fell on him, or so-- [Feigns Chearfulness, and speaks to Lady _Youthly_. L. _Youth._ How! the House fell on him--Oh! Sir _Row._ Ah, Madam, that’s all; why, the young Rogue has a Back like an Elephant--’twill bear a Castle, Madam. L. _Youth._ Alas, good Man: What a Mercy ‘tis, Mr. _Twang_, to have a Back like an Elephant! L. _Blun._ Of what wonderful Use it is upon occasion-- Sir _Row._ Ay--but--but I shall never see him more, Back nor Breast. [Weeps. _Twang._ Good Sir, discomfort not my Lady--Consider Man’s a Flower-- Sir _Row._ Ay, but _George_ was such a Flower! He was, Mr. _Twang_, he was the very Pink of Prentices. Ah! what a rare rampant Lord Mayor he wou’d have made! And what a swinging Sheriff-- [Cries. _Ter._ What, cry, so near your Wedding-day, Sir Rowland? Sir _Row._ Well, if he be gone--Peace be with him: and, ‘Ifaks, Sweet-heart, we’ll marry, and beget new Sons and Daughters--but--but I shall ne’er beget another _George_. [Cries. _Ter._ This is but a Scurvy Tune for your hymenical Song, Sir. Sir _Row._ Alas! Mrs. _Teresia_, my Instrument is untun’d, and good for nothing now but to be hung upon the Willows. _Cry within._ Murder, Murder, Murder! Enter Footman. Sir _Merlin_ with his Sword drawn, and Sir _Morgan_. Sir _Row._ What’s here, my Rogue? _Twang._ What’s the matter, Gentlemen, that ye enter the House in this hostile manner? Sir _Morg._ What, Mr. _Twang_, de see! Sir _Mer._ Ay, ay--stand by Divinity--and know, that we, the Pillars of the Nation, are come, de see--to ravish. L. _Blun._ Oh, my dear Sir Morgan. [Embraces him. Sir _Morg._ I do not intend to ravish, like a _Jew_, in my own Tribe-- L. _Youth._ What say they, Mr. _Twang_, ravish? Oh, save my Honour--lead me to my Bed-Chamber, where, if they dare venture to come, they come upon their Peril. [_Twang_ leads her out. Sir _Morgan_ goes to _Ter._ Sir _Mer._ Old Fellow, do’st hear? Sir _Pandarus_ of _Troy_, deliver me my _Cressida_, de see, peacefully, or I am resolved to bear her off _Vi & Armis_. L. _Blun._ Sweet Nephew, retire, we are just upon making your Peace. Sir _Mer._ Ha--Old Queen _Gwiniver_, without her Ruff on? [Sir _Merlin_ takes hold of her to bear her off; she cries out: Sir _Rowland_ draws upon him. As they are going to fight, _George_ enters. _Geo._ Is there a Man in Nature’s Race so vile, dares lift a guilty Hand against his Father?