Sir J. Wear a sword, sir! And what, then, sir? He comes to my house, eats my meat, lies with my wife, dishonours my family, gets a bastard to inherit my estate; and when I ask a civil account of all this.—“Sir,” says he, “I wear a sword.” Wear a sword, sir?—“Yes, sir,” says he, “I wear a sword.” It may be a good answer at cross purposes; but ’tis a d—d one to a man in my whimsical circumstances. “Sir,” says he, “I wear a sword.” [To Lady B.] And what do you wear now? Eh! tell me. [Sitting down.] What, you are modest, and can’t! why, then, I’ll tell you, you slut, you:—you wear an impudent, lewd face; a d—d designing heart; and a tail—and a tail full of—

[Falls fast asleep.

Lady B. So, thanks to kind heaven, he’s fast for some hours!

Bel. ’Tis well he is so, that we may have time to lay our story handsomely; for we must lie like the devil to bring ourselves off.

Lady B. What shall we say, Belinda?

Bel. [musing]. I’ll tell you; it must all light upon Heartfree and me.

Lady B. I’m beholden to you, cousin; but that would be carrying the jest a little too far. But it’s late: let’s, out of an excess of charity, take a small care of that nasty drunken thing there. Do but look at him, Belinda.

Bel. Ah! it’s a savoury dish.

Lady B. As savoury as it is, I’m cloyed with it. Pr’ythee, call the butler to take away.

Bel. Call the butler! Call the scavenger.

[To a Servant within.] Who’s there? Call Razor; let him take away his master; scour him clean, with a little soap and sand, and so put him to bed.

Lady B. Come, Belinda, I’ll e’en lie with you to-night, and, in the morning, we’ll send for our gentlemen, to set this matter even.

Bel. With all my heart.

Lady B. Good night, my dear.

[Making a low courtesy to Sir JOHN.

Both. Ha, ha, ha!

[Exeunt.

Enter RAZOR.

Razor. My lady, there, is a wag; my master, there, is a cuckold. Marriage is a slippery thing! Women have depraved appetites— My lady’s a wag. I have heard all; I have seen all; I understand all; and I’ll tell all: for my little Frenchwoman loves news dearly. This story will gain her heart, or nothing will.—[To Sir J.] Come, sir, your head’s too full of fumes at present, to make room for your jealousy; but I reckon we shall have rare work with you, when your pate’s empty. Come to your kennel, you cuckoldy, drunken sot, you!

[Takes him on his back. My master’s asleep in his chair, and a snoring, My lady’s abroad, and—Oh! rare matrimony.

[Exit.