_Mrs Term._ When he loses upon the square, he comes home zoundsing and blooding; first beats me unmercifully, and then squeezes me to the last penny. He has used me so, that, Gad forgive me, I could almost forswear my trade. The rogue starves me too: He made me keep Lent last year till Whitsuntide, and out-faced me with oaths it was but Easter. And what mads me most, I carry a bastard of the rogue's in my belly; and now he turns me off, and will not own it. _Mrs Over._ Lord, how it quops! you are half a year gone, madam.-- [_Laying her hand on her belly._ _Mrs Term._ I feel the young rascal kicking already, like his father.--Oh, there is an elbow thrusting out: I think, in my conscience, he is palming and topping in my belly; and practising for a livelihood, before he comes into the world. _Aldo._ Geoffery, set her down in the register, that I may provide her a mid-wife, and a dry and wet nurse: When you are up again, as heaven send you a good hour, we will pay him off at law, i'faith. You have him under black and white, I hope? _Mrs Term._ Yes, I have a note under his hand for two hundred pounds. _Aldo._ A note under his hand! that is a chip in porridge; it is just nothing.--Look, Geoffery, to the figure 12, for old half-shirts for childbed linen. _Enter Mrs_ HACKNEY. _Hack._ O, madam Termagant, are you here? Justice, father Aldo, justice! _Aldo._ Why, what is the matter, daughter Hackney? _Hack._ She has violated the law of nations; for yesterday she inveigled my own natural cully from me, a married lord, and made him false to my bed, father. _Term._ Come, you are an illiterate whore. He is my lord now; and, though you call him fool, it is well known he is a critic, gentlewoman. You never read a play in all your life; and I gained him by my wit, and so I'll keep him. _Hack._ My comfort is, I have had the best of him; he can take up no more, till his father dies: And so, much good may do you with my cully, and my clap into the bargain. _Aldo._ Then there is a father for your child, my lord's son and heir by Mr Caster. But henceforward, to preserve peace betwixt you, I ordain, that you shall ply no more in my daughter Hackney's quarters: You shall have the city, from White-Chapel to Temple-Bar, and she shall have to Covent-Garden downwards: At the play-houses, she shall ply the boxes, because she has the better face; and you shall have the pit, because you can prattle best out of a vizor mask. _Mrs Pad._ Then all friends, and confederates. Now let us have father Aldo's delight, and so adjourn the house. _Aldo._ Well said, daughter.--Lift up your voices, and sing like nightingales, you tory rory jades. Courage, I say; as long as the merry pence hold out, you shall none of you die in Shoreditch. _Enter_ WOODALL. A hey, boys, a hey! here he comes, that will swinge you all! down, you little jades, and worship him; it is the genius of whoring.