Sir _Mer._ Hum--how the devil came he to know me now?--Is this reverend Gentlewoman your Lady, Sir? Sir _Row._ Ounds, they come to mock us!--Hark ye, hark ye, Tawdrums, if you are Men, shew your Faces; if Apes, play over your Monkey-Tricks and be gone, d’ye hear.--We are not at leisure for Fooling. _Geo._ Be but at leisure, Sir, to pardon [_George_ kneels. this one Disobedience of my Life, and all the rest I’ll dedicate to please and humour you. Sir, I am marry’d. [Pulls off his Mask. Sir _Row._ What the Devil’s that to me, Sir? _Geo._ Do not you know me, Sir? Sir _Row._ No, Sir, nor don’t care to know any such flaunting Coxcombs. _Geo._ Look on me, Sir. [Looks on him, knows him, goes away, and returns. Sir _Row._ Hum, hum, hum-- _Ter._ It is your Son, Sir, your darling Son, who has sav’d your Life from Insolence. Sir _Row._ Hum--_Teresia_! L. _Youth._ How, _Teresia_! what, robb’d me of my intended Husband? Oh, undone! undone! [Falls into a Chair. Sir _Row._ And hast thou, after all, served me such a Rogue’s Trick, thou ungracious Varlet? What, cuckold thine own Father! _Geo._ Oh, do not frown, I cannot bear your Anger! Here will I hang for ever till you Pardon me. [Clasps his Knees. Sir _Row._ Look--look--now cannot I be angry with the good-natur’d young Rogue. [Weeps. Well, _George_--But hark ye, Sirrah, this is a damn’d Trick of yours. _Geo._ Sir, I found my Youth was fitter for her than your Age, and you’ll be as fond of a Grand-Child of my begetting as you would of a Son of another Man’s perhaps. Sir _Row._ Thou’rt in the Right on’t. Sir _Mer._ Ha! Is Monsieur _Lejere_ then my Brother _George_? _Geo._ Sir, Here’s another Couple wants your Pardon; my Brother _Merlin_, and my Lady _Diana_. L. _Blun._ _Diana_! What, Sir _Harry Modish’s_ Mistress? _Dia._ Yes, he pawn’d me at the _Basset-Table_; and, in Revenge, I resolv’d to marry the next Man of Fortune I met with. Sir _Row._ The Fool had more Wit than I thought he had; for which I’ll give him a Thousand Pound a Year. _Geo._ I humbly thank you, Sir. _Mir._ Pray, Melancholy Sir, who are you in Mourning for? Sir _Morg._ Alas, Madam, for a Person of Quality that was my Wife; but rest her Soul, she’s burnt. [Weeps. And I shall never see any thing again like her. _Mir._ No! What think you of this Face, Sir? Sir _Morg._ As Gad shall sa’ me, as like as if the same. L. _Blun._ In troth, and so she is. _Prince._ ‘Tis true, she was once your Wife; but I have preserv’d her from the Flames, and I have most Right to her. Sir _Morg._ That’s a hard Case, Sir, that a Man must lose his Wife, because another has more Right to her than himself; Is that Law, Sir? _Prince._ Lover’s Law, Sir. L. _Blun._ Ay, ay, Son, ‘tis the Fashion to marry one Week, and separate the next. I’ll set you a President for it my self. [In this time _Welborn_ kneels with _Olivia_; _Sir Rowland_ takes ‘em up, and kisses ‘em.