eight Degrees higher than any Woman's in the Town, let t'other be who
she will; and my Indifference is naturally about the same Pitch. Now,
could you find the way to turn this Indifference into Fire and Flames,
methinks your Vanity ought to be satisfy'd; and this, perhaps, you
might bring about upon pretty reasonable Terms.
_Lady Fan._ And pray at what rate would this Indifference be bought
off, if one shou'd have so depraved an Appetite to desire it?
_Heart._ Why, Madam, to drive a Quaker's Bargain, and make but one word
with you, if I do part with it--you must lay me down--your Affectation.
_Lady Fan._ My Affectation, Sir!
_Heart._ Why, I ask you nothing but what you may very well spare.
_Lady Fan._ You grow rude, Sir. Come, _Madamoiselle_, 'tis high time to
be gone.
Madam. _Allons, allons, allons._
_Heart._ [_Stopping them._] Nay, you may as well stand still; for hear
me you shall, walk which way you please.
_Lady Fan._ What mean you, Sir?
_Heart._ I mean to tell you, that you are the most ungrateful Woman
upon Earth.
_Lady Fan._ Ungrateful! To whom?
_Heart._ To Nature.
_Lady Fan._ Why, what has Nature done for me?
_Heart._ What you have undone by Art! It made you handsome; it gave you
Beauty to a Miracle, a Shape without a Fault, Wit enough to make them
relish, and so turn'd you loose to your own Discretion; which has made
such work with you, that you are become the Pity of our Sex, and the
Jest of your own. There is not a Feature in your Face, but you have
found the way to teach it some affected Convulsion; your Feet, your
Hands, your very Fingers Ends are directed never to move without some
ridiculous Air or other; and your Language is a suitable Trumpet, to
draw people's Eyes upon the Raree-show.
_Madam._ [aside] _Est ce qu'on fait l'amour en Angleterre comme ça?_
_Lady Fan._ [_Aside._] Now cou'd I cry for Madness, but that I know
he'd laugh at me for it.
_Heart._ Now do you hate me for telling you the Truth, but that's
because you don't believe it is so; for were you once convinc'd of
that, you'd reform for your own sake. But 'tis as hard to persuade a
Woman to quit any thing that makes her ridiculous, as 'tis to prevail
with a Poet to see a Fault in his own Play.
_Lady Fan._ Every Circumstance of nice Breeding must needs appear
ridiculous to one who has so natural an Antipathy to Good-manners.
_Heart._ But suppose I could find the means to convince you, that the
whole World is of my Opinion, and that those who flatter and commend
you, do it to no other Intent, but to make you persevere in your Folly,
that they may continue in their Mirth.
_Lady Fan._ Sir, tho' you and all that World you talk of shou'd be
so impertinently officious, as to think to persuade me I don't know
how to behave myself; I shou'd still have Charity enough for my own
Understanding, to believe myself in the right, and all you in the wrong.
Madam. _Le voila mort._
[_Exeunt Lady ~Fancyfull~ and ~Madamoiselle~._
_Heart._ [_Gazing after her._] There her single Clapper has publish'd
the Sense of the whole Sex. Well, this once I have endeavour'd to wash
the Blackamoor white, but henceforward I'll sooner undertake to teach
Sincerity to a Courtier, Generosity to an Usurer, Honesty to a Lawyer,
nay, Humility to a Divine, than Discretion to a Woman I see has once
set her Heart upon playing the Fool.
_Enter ~Constant~._
'Morrow, _Constant_.
_Const._ Good-morrow, _Jack_! What are you doing here this Morning?
_Heart._ Doing! Guess, if thou canst.----Why I have been endeavouring
to persuade my Lady _Fancyfull_, that she's the foolishest Woman about
Town.
_Const._ A pretty Endeavour, truly!
_Heart._ I have told her in as plain _English_ as I could speak, both
what the Town says of her, and what I think of her. In short, I have
us'd her as an absolute King would do _Magna Charta_.
_Const._ And how does she take it?
_Heart._ As Children do Pills; bite them, but can't swallow them.
_Const._ But, pr'ythee, what has put it into your Head, of all Mankind,
to turn Reformer?
_Heart._ Why one thing was, the Morning hung upon my Hands, I did not
know what to do with myself; and another was, that as little as I care
for Women, I cou'd not see with Patience one that Heaven had taken
such wondrous Pains about, be so very industrious to make herself the
Jack-pudding of the Creation.
_Const._ Well, now could I almost wish to see my cruel Mistress make
the self-same Use of what Heaven has done for her, that so I might be
cur'd of a Disease that makes me so very uneasy; for Love, Love is the
Devil, _Heartfree_.
_Heart._ And why do you let the Devil govern you?
_Const._ Because I have more Flesh and Blood than Grace and
Self-denial. My dear, dear Mistress! 'S death! that so genteel a Woman
should be a Saint, when Religion's out of Fashion!
_Heart._ Nay, she's much in the wrong, truly; but who knows how far
Time and good Example may prevail?
_Const._ O! they have play'd their Parts in vain already: 'Tis now two
Years since that damned Fellow her Husband invited me to his Wedding;
and there was the first time I saw that charming Woman, whom I have
lov'd ever since, more than e'er a Martyr did his Soul; but she is
cold, my Friend, still cold as the Northern Star.
_Heart._ So are all Women by Nature, which makes them so willing to be
warm'd.
_Const._ O don't prophane the Sex! Pr'ythee, think them all Angels for
her sake; for she's virtuous even to a Fault.
_Heart._ A Lover's Head is a good accountable Thing truly; he adores
his Mistress for being virtuous, and yet is very angry with her because
she won't be lewd.
_Const._ Well, the only Relief I expect in my Misery, is to see thee
some Day or other as deeply engag'd as myself, which will force me to
be merry in the midst of all my Misfortunes.
_Heart._ That Day will never come, be assur'd, _Ned_. Not but that I
can pass a Night with a Woman, and for the time, perhaps; make myself
as good Sport as you can do. Nay, I can court a Woman too, call her
Nymph, Angel, Goddess, what you please: But here's the Difference
'twixt you and I; I persuade a Woman she's an Angel, and she persuades
you she's one. Pr'ythee, let me tell you how I avoid falling in Love;
that which serves me for Prevention, may chance to serve you for a Cure.
_Const._ Well, use the Ladies moderately then, and I'll hear you.
_Heart._ That using them moderately undoes us all; but I'll use them
justly, and that you ought to be satisfied with. I always consider
a Woman, not as the Taylor, the Shoemaker, the Tire-woman, the
Sempstress, and (which is more than all that) the Poet makes her; but I
consider her as pure Nature has contrived her, and that more strictly
than I shou'd have done our old Grandmother _Eve_, had I seen her naked
in the Garden; for I consider her turn'd inside out. Her Heart well
examin'd, I find there Pride, Vanity, Covetousness, Indiscretion, but
above all things, Malice; plots eternally a-forging to destroy one
another's Reputations, and as honestly to charge the Levity of Men's
Tongues with the Scandal; hourly Debates how to make poor Gentlemen
in love with them, with no other Intent but to use them like Dogs
when they have done; a constant Desire of doing more Mischief, and an
everlasting War wag'd against Truth and Good-Nature.
_Const._ Very well, Sir! An admirable Composition, truly!
_Heart._ Then for her Outside, I consider it merely as an Outside;
she has a thin Tiffany Covering over just such Stuff as you and I are
made on. As for her Motion, her Mien, her Airs, and all those Tricks,
I know they affect you mightily. If you should see your Mistress at
a Coronation dragging her Peacock's Train, with all her State and
Insolence about her, 'twou'd strike you with all the awful Thoughts
that Heav'n itself could pretend to from you; whereas I turn the whole
Matter into a Jest, and suppose her strutting in the self-same stately
Manner, with nothing on her but her Stays and her under scanty quilted
Petticoat.
_Const._ Hold thy profane Tongue; for I'll hear no more.
_Heart._ What, you'll love on, then?
_Const._ Yes, to Eternity.
_Heart._ Yet you have no hopes at all?
_Const._ None.
_Heart._ Nay, the Resolution may be discreet enough; perhaps you have
found out some new Philosophy, that Love, like Virtue, is its own
Reward: So you and your Mistress will be as well content at a Distance,
as others that have less Learning are in coming together.
_Const._ No; but if she should prove kind at last, my dear _Heartfree_--
[_Embracing him_.
_Heart._ Nay, pr'ythee, don't take me for your Mistress; for Lovers are
very troublesome.
_Const._ Well; who knows what Time may do?
_Heart._ And just now he was sure Time could do nothing.
_Const._ Yet not one kind Glance in two Years, is somewhat strange.
_Heart._ Not strange at all; she don't like you, that's all the
Business.
_Const._ Pr'ythee, don't distract me.
_Heart._ Nay, you are a good handsome young Fellow, she might use you
better: Come, will you go see her? Perhaps she may have chang'd her
Mind; there's some Hopes as long as she's a Woman.
_Const._ O, 'tis in vain to visit her! Sometimes to get a Sight of her,
I visit that Beast her Husband; but she certainly finds some Pretence
to quit the Room as soon as I enter.
_Heart._ 'Tis much she don't tell him you have made Love to her too;
for that's another good-natur'd thing usual amongst Women, in which
they have several Ends. Sometimes 'tis to recommend their Virtue, that
they may be lewd with the greater Security. Sometimes 'tis to make
their Husbands fight, in hopes they may be kill'd, when their Affairs
require it should be so: but most commonly 'tis to engage two Men in
a Quarrel, that they may have the Credit of being fought for; and if
the Lover's kill'd in the Business, they cry, _Poor Fellow, he had ill
Luck_----and so they go to Cards.
_Const._ Thy Injuries to Women are not to be forgiven. Look to't, if
ever thou dost fall into their Hands----
_Heart._ They can't use me worse than they do you, that speak well of
'em. O ho! here comes the Knight.
_Enter Sir ~John Brute~._
_Heart._ Your humble Servant, Sir _John_.
_Sir John._ Servant, Sir.
_Heart._ How does all your Family?
_Sir John._ Pox o' my Family!
_Const._ How does your Lady? I han't seen her abroad a good while.
_Sir John._ Do! I don't know how she does, not I; she was well enough
Yesterday; I han't been at home to-night.
_Const._ What, were you out of Town?
_Sir John._ Out of Town! No, I was drinking.
_Const._ You are a true _Englishman_; don't know your own Happiness. If
I were married to such a Woman, I would not be from her a Night for all
the Wine in _France_.
_Sir John._ Not from her!----'Oons----what a time should a Man have of
that!
_Heart._ Why, there's no Division, I hope.
_Sir John._ No; but there's a Conjunction, and that's worse; a Pox of
the Parson----Why the plague don't you two marry? I fancy I look like
the Devil to you.
_Heart._ Why, you don't think you have Horns, do you?
_Sir John._ No, I believe my Wife's Religion will keep her honest.
_Heart._ And what will make her keep her Religion?
_Sir John._ Persecution; and therefore she shall have it.
_Heart._ Have a care, Knight! Women are tender things.
_Sir John._ And yet, methinks, 'tis a hard Matter to break their Hearts.
_Const._ Fy, fy! You have one of the best Wives in the World, and yet
you seem the most uneasy Husband.
_Sir John._ Best Wives! The Woman's well enough; she has no Vice that
I know of, but she's a Wife, and--damn a Wife! If I were married to a
Hogshead of Claret, Matrimony would make me hate it.
_Heart._ Why did you marry, then? You were old enough to know your own
Mind.
_Sir John._ Why did I marry? I married because I had a mind to lie with
her, and she would not let me.
_Heart._ Why did you not ravish her?
_Sir John._ Yes, and so have hedg'd myself into forty Quarrels with her
Relations, besides buying my pardon: But more than all that, you must
know, I was afraid of being damn'd in those days: For I kept sneaking,
cowardly Company, Fellows that went to Church, said Grace to their
Meat, and had not the least Tincture of Quality about them.
_Heart._ But I think you are got into a better Gang now?
_Sir John._ Zoons, Sir, my Lord _Rake_ and I are Hand and Glove: I
believe we may get our Bones broke together to-night; have you a mind
to share a Frolick?
_Const._ Not I, truly; my Talent lies to softer Exercises.
_Sir John._ What, a Down-Bed and a Strumpet? A pox of Venery, I say.
Will you come and drink with me this Afternoon?
_Const._ I can't drink to-day, but we'll come and sit an Hour with you,
if you will.
_Sir John._ Phugh, Pox, sit an Hour! Why can't you drink?
_Const._ Because I'm to see my Mistress.
_Sir John._ Who's that?
_Const._ Why, do you use to tell?
_Sir John._ Yes.
_Const._ So won't I.
_Sir John._ Why?
_Const._ Because 'tis a Secret.
_Sir John._ Would my Wife knew it, 'twould be no Secret long.
_Const._ Why, do you think she can't keep a Secret?
_Sir John._ No more than she can keep _Lent_.
_Heart._ Pr'ythee, tell it her to try, _Constant_.
_Sir John._ No, pr'ythee, don't, that I mayn't be plagu'd with it.
_Const._ I'll hold you a Guinea you don't make her tell it you.
_Sir John._ I'll hold you a Guinea I do.
_Const._ Which way?
_Sir John._ Why, I'll beg her not to tell it me.
_Heart._ Nay, if any thing does it, that will.
_Const._ But do you think, Sir----
_Sir John._ Oons, Sir, I think a Woman and a Secret are the two
impertinentest Themes in the Universe: Therefore pray let's hear no
more of my Wife, nor your Mistress. Damn 'em both with all my heart,
and every thing else that daggles a Petticoat, except four generous
Whores, with _Betty Sands_ at the Head of 'em, who are drunk with my
Lord _Rake_ and I ten times in a Fortnight.
[_Exit ~Sir John~._
_Const._ Here's a dainty Fellow for you! And the veriest Coward too.
But his Usage of his Wife makes me ready to stab the Villain.
_Heart._ Lovers are short-sighted: All their Senses run into that of
Feeling. This Proceeding of his is the only thing on Earth can make
your Fortune. If any thing can prevail with her to accept of a Gallant,
'tis his ill Usage of her; for Women will do more for Revenge, than
they'll do for the Gospel. Pr'ythee, take heart, I have great hopes for
you: And since I can't bring you quite off of her, I'll endeavour to
bring you quite on; for a whining Lover is the damn'dest Companion upon
Earth.
_Const._ My dear Friend, flatter me a little more with these Hopes; for
whilst they prevail, I have Heaven within me, and could melt with Joy.
_Heart._ Pray, no melting yet; let things go farther first. This
afternoon, perhaps, we shall make some advance. In the mean while,
let's go dine at _Locket_'s, and let Hope get you a Stomach.
[_Exeunt._
+SCENE+, _Lady_ Fancyfull's _House_.
_Enter Lady ~Fancyfull~ and ~Madamoiselle~._
_Lady Fan._ Did you ever see any thing so _importune, Madamoiselle_?
_Madam._ Inteed, Matam, to say de trute, he want leetel Good-breeding.
_Lady Fan._ Good-breeding! He wants to be caned, _Madamoiselle_: an
insolent Fellow! And yet let me expose my Weakness, 'tis the only Man
on Earth I cou'd resolve to dispense my Favours on, were he but a
fine Gentleman. Well! did Men but know how deep an Impression a fine
Gentleman makes in a Lady's Heart, they would reduce all their Studies
to that of Good-breeding alone.
_Enter ~Cornet~._
_Cor._ Madam, here's Mr. _Treble_. He has brought home the Verses your
Ladyship made, and gave him to set.
_Lady Fan._ O let him come in by all means. Now _Madamoiselle_, am I
going to be unspeakably happy.
_Enter ~Treble~._
So, Mr. _Treble_, you have set my little Dialogue?
_Treb._ Yes, Madam, and I hope your Ladyship will be pleased with it.
_Lady Fan._ O, no doubt on't; for really, Mr. _Treble_, you set all
things to a wonder: But your Musick is in particular heavenly, when you
have my Words to clothe in't.
_Treb._ Your Words themselves, Madam, have so much Musick in 'em, they
inspire me.
_Lady Fan._ Nay, now you make me blush, Mr. _Treble_; but pray let's
hear what you have done.
_Treb._ You shall, Madam.
A SONG, to be sung between a Man and a Woman.
M. _Ah lovely Nymph, the World's on fire;
Veil, veil those cruel Eyes_:
W. _The World may then in Flames expire,
And boast that so it dies_.
M. _But when all Mortals are destroy'd,
Who then shall sing your Praise?_
W. _Those who are fit to be employ'd:
The Gods shall Altars raise_.
_Treb._ How does your Ladyship like it, Madam?
_Lady Fan._ Rapture, Rapture, Mr. _Treble_! I'm all Rapture! O Wit and
Art, what Power have you when join'd! I must needs tell you the Birth
of this little Dialogue, Mr. _Treble_. Its Father was a Dream, and its
Mother was the Moon. I dream'd that by an unanimous Vote, I was chosen
Queen of that pale World; and that the first time I appear'd upon my
Throne----all my Subjects fell in love with me. Just then I wak'd,
and seeing Pen, Ink and Paper lie idle upon the Table, I slid into my
Morning-Gown, and writ this _impromptu_.
_Treb._ So I guess the Dialogue, Madam, is suppos'd to be between your
Majesty and your first Minister of State.
_Lady Fan._ Just: He, as Minister, advises me to trouble my Head
about the Welfare of my Subjects; which I, as Sovereign, find a very
impertinent Proposal. But is the Town so dull, Mr. _Treble_, it affords
us never another new Song?
_Treb._ Madam, I have one in my Pocket, came out but Yesterday, if your
Ladyship pleases to let Mrs. _Pipe_ sing it.
_Lady Fan._ By all means. Here, _Pipe_, make what Musick you can of
this Song, here.
SONG.
I.
_Not an Angel dwells above,
Half so fair as her I love.
Heaven knows, how she'll receive me;
If she smiles, I'm blest indeed;
If she frowns, I'm quickly freed;
Heaven knows she ne'er can grieve me._
II.
_None can love her more than I,
Yet she ne'er shall make me die.
If my Flame can never warm her,
Lasting Beauty I'll adore;
I shall never love her more,
Cruelty will so deform her._
_Lady Fan._ Very well: This is _Heartfree_'s Poetry without question.
_Treb._ Won't your Ladyship please to sing yourself this Morning?
_Lady Fan._ O Lord, Mr. _Treble_, my Cold is still so barbarous to
refuse me that Pleasure! He, he, hem.
_Treb._ I'm very sorry for it, Madam: Methinks all Mankind should turn
Physicians for the Cure on't.
_Lady Fan._ Why, truly, to give Mankind their due, there's few that
know me but have offer'd their Remedy.
_Treb._ They have reason, Madam; for I know no body sings so near a
Cherubim as your Ladyship.
_Lady Fan._ What I do, I owe chiefly to your Skill and Care, Mr.
_Treble_. People do flatter me, indeed, that I have a Voice, and a
_Je-ne-sçai-quoy_ in the Conduct of it, that will make Musick of any
thing. And truly I begin to believe so, since what happen'd t'other
Night: Wou'd you think it, Mr. _Treble_? Walking pretty late in the
Park, (for I often walk late in the Park, Mr _Treble_) a Whim took me
to sing _Chevy Chase_; and, wou'd you believe it? next Morning I had
three Copies of Verses, and six Billet-doux at my Levée upon it.
_Treb._ And without all dispute you deserv'd as many more, Madam. Are
there any further Commands for your Ladyship's humble Servant?
_Lady Fan._ Nothing more at this Time, Mr. _Treble_. But I shall expect
you here every Morning for this Month, to sing my little Matter there
to me. I'll reward you for your Pains.
_Treb._ O Lord, Madam----
_Lady Fan._ Good-morrow, sweet Mr. _Treble_.
_Treb._ Your Ladyship's most obedient Servant.
[_Exit ~Treb~._
_Enter Servant._
_Serv._ Will your Ladyship please to dine yet?
_Lady Fan._ Yes, let 'em serve. [_Exit Servant._] Sure this _Heartfree_
has bewitch'd me, _Madamoiselle_. You can't imagine how oddly he
mixt himself in my Thoughts during my Rapture e'en now. I vow 'tis a
thousand Pities he is not more polish'd: Don't you think so?
_Madam._ Matam, I tink it so great pity, dat if I was in your Ladyship
place, I take him home in my House, I lock him up in my Closet, and I
never let him go till I teach him every ting dat fine Laty expect from
fine Gentelman.
_Lady Fan._ Why, truly, I believe I shou'd soon subdue his Brutality;
for without doubt, he has a strange _Penchant_ to grow fond of me,
in spite of his Aversion to the Sex, else he wou'd ne'er have taken
so much Pains about me. Lord, how proud wou'd some poor Creatures be
of such a Conquest! But I, alas! I don't know how to receive as a
Favour what I take to be so infinitely my Due. But what shall I do to
new-mould him, _Madamoiselle_? for till then he's my utter Aversion.
_Madam._ Matam; you must laugh at him in all de place dat you meet him,
and turn into de reticule all he say, and all he do.
_Lady Fan._ Why, truly, Satire has ever been of wondrous use to reform
Ill-manners. Besides, 'tis my particular Talent to ridicule Folks. I
can be severe, strangely severe, when I will, _Madamoiselle_----Give me
the Pen and Ink----I find myself whimsical----I'll write to him----Or
I'll let it alone, and be severe upon him that way [_Sitting down to
write, rising up again._]--Yet Active Severity is better than Passive.
[_Sitting down._]----'Tis as good let it alone, too; for every Lash I
give him, perhaps, he'll take for a Favour. [_Rising._]----Yet 'tis
a thousand pities so much Satire should be lost. [_Sitting._]----
But if it shou'd have a wrong Effect upon him, 'twould distract me.
[_Rising._]----Well, I must write, tho', after all, [_Sitting._]----Or
I'll let it alone, which is the same thing. [_Rising._]
Madam. _La voilà determinée._
[_Exeunt._
[Illustration]
+ACT+ III.
+SCENE+ _opens; Sir ~John~, Lady ~Brute~ and ~Belinda~ rising from the
Table._
_Sir John._ Here, take away the Things; I expect Company. But first
bring me a Pipe; I'll smoak.
[_To a Servant._
_Lady Brute._ Lord, Sir _John_, I wonder you won't leave that nasty
Custom.
_Sir John._ Pr'ythee, don't be impertinent.
_Bel._ [_To Lady ~Brute~._] I wonder who those People are he expects
this Afternoon?
_Lady Brute._ I'd give the World to know: Perhaps 'tis _Constant_--he
comes here sometimes: if it does prove him, I'm resolv'd I'll share the
Visit.
_Bel._ We'll send for our Work, and sit here.
_Lady Brute._ He'll choak us with his Tobacco.
_Bel._ Nothing will choak us when we are doing what we have a mind to.
_Lovewell!_
_Enter ~Lovewell~._
_Lov._ Madam.
_Lady Brute._ Here; bring my Cousin's Work and mine hither.
[_Exit ~Lov~. and re-enters with their Work._
_Sir John._ Whu! Pox, can't you work somewhere else?
_Lady Brute._ We shall be careful not to disturb you, Sir.
_Bel._ Your Pipe would make you too thoughtful, Uncle, if you were left
alone; our Prittle-prattle will cure your Spleen.
_Sir John._ Will it so, Mrs. Pert? Now I believe it will so increase
it, [_Sitting and smoaking._] I shall take my own House for a
Paper-mill.
_Lady Brute._ [_To ~Bel~. aside._] Don't let's mind him; let him say
what he will.
_Sir John._ A Woman's Tongue a Cure for the Spleen!--Oons--[_Aside._]
If a Man had got the Head-ach, they'd be for applying the same Remedy.
_Lady Brute._ You have done a great deal, _Belinda_, since yesterday.
_Bel._ Yes, I have work'd very hard; how do you like it?
_Lady Brute._ O, 'tis the prettiest Fringe in the World. Well, Cousin,
you have the happiest Fancy: Pr'ythee, advise me about altering my
Crimson Petticoat.
_Sir John._ A Pox o' your Petticoat! Here's such a Prating, a Man can't
digest his own Thoughts for you.
_Lady Brute._ Don't answer him. [_Aside._] Well, what do you advise me?
_Bel._ Why, really, I would not alter it at all. Methinks 'tis very
pretty as it is.
_Lady Brute._ Ay, that's, true: But you know one grows weary of the
prettiest things in the World, when one has had 'em long.
_Sir John._ Yes, I have taught her that.
_Bel._ Shall we provoke him a little?
_Lady Brute._ With all my Heart. _Belinda_, don't you long to be
marry'd?
_Bel._ Why, there are some things in it I could like well enough.
_Lady Brute._ What do you think you shou'd dislike?
_Bel._ My Husband, a hundred to one else.
_Lady Brute._ O ye wicked Wretch! Sure you don't speak as you think?
_Bel._ Yes, I do: especially if he smoak'd Tobacco.
[_He looks earnestly at 'em._
_Lady Brute._ Why, that many times takes off worse Smells.
_Bel._ Then he must smell very ill indeed.
_Lady Brute._ So some Men will, to keep their Wives from coming near
'em.
_Bel._ Then those Wives shou'd cuckold 'em at a distance.
_He rises in a Fury, throws his Pipe at 'em, and drives 'em out. As
they run off, ~Constant~ and ~Heartfree~ enter. Lady ~Brute~ runs
against ~Constant~._
_Sir John._. 'Oons, get you gone up Stairs, you confederating Strumpets
you, o I'll cuckold you, with a Vengeance!
_Lady Brute._ O Lord, he'll beat us, he'll beat us. Dear, dear Mr.
_Constant_, save us!
[_Exeunt._