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Sylvester:
Aye wretched woman, Satan's renegade,
Give up the crown you might have worn with him,
With twice turn'd satins and in scour'd lace,
In tarnish'd mantua dight and vested, go,
Creep cravenly the back-stairs way to Heaven!
And as for any terror of the Fiend,
I should not quail or tremble now tho' Hell
For just one night unkennelling the damn'd
Vomit live devils forth, to sup with me!
(Sylvester goes thro' garden door, right.)
Madam Pomeroy.(Looking after him):
'Whilst the thief steals the hemp is ripening,'
'Tis an old proverb, he shall find it true.
Sylvester, soundly shall you sleep to-night,
Aye, sleep, and wake to find thyself in Hell!
You shall sup sorrow at the board of Death,
And pledge a toast to your chap-fallen mates
