As the dance commenced, this villainous scoundrel whisked away with the beauteous and virginal Lady Radcliffe to the moon-dappled garden of the castle; where, one can only assume, the caddish Egan planned to pitch woo, kiss the hand, and carouse in an unholy manner closely akin to "merry-making." However, before this surly wagtail could besmirch the charms of this fair maiden, his villainy was interrupted by no other than the Earl of Bedford and the man destined to marry Lady Radcliffe, Duke Gaylord Phips, the second son of the Duchess of Rycote.
"Unhand my niece, sir," cried the flummoxed Earl, "Or by my trousers, I'll have thee unceremoniously whipped and the gristle of your right ear bored hollow with a hot iron!"
"Uncle, no!" cried the surprised maiden, "this gentle fellow was but returning a handkerchief dropped outside the castle walls."
"I'll have none of that," Egan the village rogue churlishly replied. "I'm in love with your niece, Bunbury, and I'll be damned if she'll marry that prattling foppish dandy, Phips!"
"Pish, tush!" exclaimed the scorned Phips, "Make me a popinjay, would you? Then you, sir, shall have a taste of my sword!"
Unfortunately for all concerned, before his brave dukeship could disembowel the lascivious knave, Egan the village rogue made good his escape, all the while swearing his eternal amorous intentions to the swooning Lady Radcliffe.
By God's teeth we, along with Lord Bunbury and the cuckolded Duke, must violently protest the witless antics of this wanton, goatish cutpurse. Egan the Village Rogue is hereby proclaimed the bane of polite society, as he has traveled far above his station in his lewd, amorous pursuits. O, you churlish rogue! May God Himself blast your bottom with unmerciful bolts of fiery retribution!
