Marpl. Why ay, but his Name is neither Barbinetto nor Meanwell.

Sir Jeal. What is his Name then, Sirrah, ha?  Now I look at you agen, I believe you are the Rogue threaten’d me with half a Dozen Mirmidons—­Speak, Sir, who is it you look for? or, or—­

Marpl. A terrible old Dog!—­Why, Sir, only an honest young Fellow of my Acquaintance—­I thought that here might be a Ball, and that he might have been here in a Masquerade; ’tis Charles, Sir Francis Gripe’s Son, because I know he us’d to come hither sometimes.

Sir Jeal. Did he so?—­Not that I know of, I’m sure.  Pray Heaven that this be Don Diego—­If I shou’d be trick’d now—­Ha! my Heart misgives me plaguily—­within there! stop the Marriage—­Run, Sirrah, call all my Servants!  I’ll be satisfy’d that this is Seignior Pedro’s Son e’re he has my Daughter.

Marpl. Ha, Sir George, what have I done now ?

  Enter Sir George_ with a drawn Sword between the Scenes._

Sir Geo. Ha! Marplot, here—­Oh the unlucky Dog—­what’s the matter, Sir Jealous?

Sir Jeal. Nay, I don’t know the matter, Mr._Meanwell_.

Marpl. Upon my Soul, Sir George—­
    (Going up to Sir Geo.__

Sir Jeal. Nay then, I’m betray’d, ruin’d, undone:  Thieves, Traytors,
Rogues! (Offers to go in.) Stop the Marriage, I say—­

Sir Geo. I say, go on Mr._Tackum_—­Nay, no Ent’ring here, I guard this Passage, old Gentleman; the Act and Deed were both your own, and I’ll see ’em sign’d, or die for’t.

  Enter Servants.

Sir Jeal. A pox on the Act and Deed!—­Fall on, knock him down.

Sir Geo. Ay, come on, Scoundrils!  I’ll prick your Jackets for you.

Sir Jeal. Z’ounds, Sirrah, I’ll be Reveng’d on you.
    (Beats Marplot_._

Sir Geo. Ay, there your Vengeance is due; Ha, ha.

Marpl. Why, what do you beat me for?  I ha’nt marry’d your Daughter.

Sir Jeal. Rascals! why don’t you knock him down?

Serv. We are afraid of his Sword, Sir; if you’ll take that from him, we’ll knock him down presently.

  Enter Charles_ and Isabinda._

Sir Jeal. Seize her then.

Char. Rascals, retire; she’s my Wife, touch her if you dare, I’ll make Dogs meat of you.

Sir Jeal. Ah! downright English:—­Oh, oh, oh, oh!

  Enter Sir Francis Gripe_, Mirand, Patch, Scentwell,
  and Whisper._

Sir Fran. Into the House of Joy we Enter without knocking:  Ha!  I think ’tis the House of Sorrow, Sir Jealous.

Sir Jeal. Oh Sir Francis! are you come?  What was this your Contrivance, to abuse, trick, and chouse me of my Child!