gets off unseen.
By all the Powers--

_Prince._ Hold, I scorn to need an Oath to fix my Faith; Oh! thou art
all divine, and canst not err.
[Embraces her.
Curs'd be the Tongue that dares profane thy Virtue, and curs'd the
listning Fool that dares believe it.

_Geo._ What a poor, wretched, baffled thing is Man, by feebler Woman
aw'd and made a Coxcomb!

_Mir._ Durst any one traduce my Virtue, Sir, and is it possible that you
could hear it?--Then perish all the Beauties you have flatter'd.
[Tears her Head-things.

_Prince._ Come to my Arms, thou Charmer of my Soul! and if one spark of
Jealousy remain, one of those precious Tears shall quench the Crime--Oh,
come, and let me lead thee to thy Bed, and breathe new Vows into thy
panting Bosom.
[Leads her off, she looks back on _George_ and smiles.

_Geo._ Now all the Plagues of injur'd Lovers wreck thee; 'Sdeath, where
has she hid _Olivia_? or how am I deceiv'd?--'Tis Day, and with it new
Invention rise to damn this Woman to the sin of Shame; break all the
Chains that hold the princely Youth, and sink her with her fancy'd Power
and Vanity.
[Exit.

SCENE III. Changes to Lady _Youthly's_.

Enter Sir _Rowland_ half dress'd, Lady _Blunder_ in an Undress,
Lady _Youthly_ in her morning-dress, _Teresia_ and Mr. _Twang_.

Sir _Row._ Morrow, my Lady _Youthly_, and thank you for my Night's
Lodging--You are as early up as if it had been your Wedding-day.

L. _Youth._ Truly, Sir _Rowland_, that I intend.

Sir _Row._ But where's the Bride-groom, Madam?

Enter _Roger_.

How now, _Roger_, what, no news yet of _George_?

_Rog._ Alas! none, Sir, none, till the Rubbish be removed.

Sir _Row._ Rubbish--What--what, is _George_ become the Rubbish of the
World then?
[Weeps.

_Twang._ Why, Man is but Dust, as a Man may say, Sir.

L. _Blun._ But are you sure, _Roger_, my Jewel, my Sir _Moggy_ escap'd?

_Rog._ The Watch drew him out of the Cellar-window, Madam.

L. _Youth._ How, Mr. _Twang_, the young Gentleman burnt--Oh--
[Falls in a Chair.

_Ter._ Alas! my Grandmother faints with your ill News.--Good Sir
_Rowland_, comfort her, and dry your Eyes.

Sir _Row._ Burnt, Madam! No, no, only the House fell on him, or so--
[Feigns Chearfulness, and speaks to Lady _Youthly_.

L. _Youth._ How! the House fell on him--Oh!

Sir _Row._ Ah, Madam, that's all; why, the young Rogue has a Back like
an Elephant--'twill bear a Castle, Madam.