[_Loud music. Enter_ ALLWORTH, MARGARET, _and_ LOVELL. MARGARET: Sir, first your pardon, then your blessing, with Your full allowance of the choice I have made. (_Kneeling_) This is my husband. OVERREACH: How? ALLWORTH: So I assure you. OVERREACH: Devil! Are they married? WILLDO: They are married, sir; but why this rage to me? Is not this your letter, sir? And these the words, "Marry her to this gentleman"? OVERREACH: I never will believe it, 'death! I will not; That I should be gulled, baffled, fooled, defeated By children, all my hopes and labours crossed. WELLBORN: You are so, my grave uncle, it appears. OVERREACH: Village nurses revenge their wrongs with curses, I'll waste no words, but thus I take the life Which, wretch, I gave to thee. [_Offers to kill_ MARGARET. LOVELL: Hold, for your own sake! OVERREACH: Lord! thus I spit at thee, And at thy counsel; and again desire thee As thou'rt a soldier, let us quit the house And change six words in private. LOVELL: I am ready. LADY ALLWORTH: Stay, sir; would you contest with one distraited? OVERREACH: Are you pale? Borrow his help; though Hercules call it odds, I'll stand against both, as I am, hemmed in thus. Alone, I can do nothing, but I have servants And friends to succour me; and if I make not This house a heap of ashes, or leave one throat uncut, Hell add to my afflictions! [_Exit._ MARRALL: Is't not brave sport? ALLWORTH (_to_ MARGARET): Nay, weep not, dearest, though't express your pity. MARRALL: Was it not a rare trick, An't please your worship, to make the deed nothing? I can do twenty neater, if you please To purchase and grow rich. They are mysteries Not to be spoke in public; certain minerals Incorporated in the ink and wax. WELLBORN: You are a rascal. He that dares be false To a master, though unjust, will ne'er be true To any other. Look not for reward Or favour from me. Instantly begone. MARRALL: At this haven false servants still arrive. [_Exit. Re-enter_ OVERREACH. WILLDO: Some little time I have spent, under your favours, In physical studies, and, if my judgment err not, He's mad beyond recovery. OVERREACH: Were they a squadron of pikes, when I am mounted Upon my injuries, shall I fear to charge them? [_Flourishing his sword sheathed_. I'll fall to execution--ha! I am feeble: Some undone widow sits upon mine arm, And takes away the use of 't! And my sword, Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears, Will not be drawn. Are these the hangmen? But I'll be forced to hell like to myself; Though you were legions of accursed spirits, Thus would I fly among you. [_Rushes forward_.