Mrs. Pinch. Well, ’tis e’en so, I have got the London disease they call love; I am sick of my husband, and for my gallant. I have heard this distemper called a fever, but methinks ’tis like an ague; for when I think of my husband, I tremble, and am in a cold sweat, and have inclinations to vomit; but when I think of my gallant, dear Mr. Horner, my hot fit comes, and I am all in a fever indeed; and, as in other fevers, my own chamber is tedious to me, and I would fain be removed to his, and then methinks I should be well. Ah, poor Mr. Horner! Well, I cannot, will not stay here; therefore I’ll make an end of my letter to him, which shall be a finer letter than my last, because I have studied it like anything. Oh sick, sick!

[Takes the pen and writes.

Enter Pinchwife, who seeing her writing, steals softly behind her and looking over her shoulder, snatches the paper from her.

Pinch. What, writing more letters?

Mrs. Pinch. O Lord, bud, why d’ye fright me so?

[She offers to run out; he stops her, and reads.

Pinch. How’s this? nay, you shall not stir, madam:—“Dear, dear, dear Mr. Horner”—very well—I have taught you to write letters to good purpose—but let us see’t. “First, I am to beg your pardon for my boldness in writing to you, which I’d have you to know I would not have done, had not you said first you loved me so extremely, which if you do, you will never suffer me to lie in the arms of another man whom I loathe, nauseate, and detest.”—Now you can write these filthy words. But what follows?—“Therefore, I hope you will speedily find some way to free me from this unfortunate match, which was never, I assure you, of my choice, but I’m afraid ’tis already too far gone; however, if you love me, as I do you, you will try what you can do; but you must help me away before to-morrow, or else, alas! I shall be for ever out of your reach, for I can defer no longer our—our—” what is to follow “our”?—speak, what—our journey into the country I suppose—Oh woman, damned woman! and Love, damned Love, their old tempter! for this is one of his miracles; in a moment he can make those blind that could see, and those see that were blind, those dumb that could speak, and those prattle who were dumb before; nay, what is more than all, make these dough-baked, senseless, indocile animals, women, too hard for us their politic lords and rulers, in a moment. But make an end of your letter, and then I’ll make an end of you thus, and all my plagues together.

[Draws his sword.

Mrs. Pinch. O Lord, O Lord, you are such a passionate man, bud!

Enter Sparkish.

Spark. How now, what’s here to do?

Pinch. This fool here now!

Spark. What! drawn upon your wife? You should never do that, but at night in the dark, when you can’t hurt her. This is my sister-in-law, is it not? ay, faith, e’en our country Margery [pulls aside her handkerchief]; one may know her. Come, she and you must go dine with me; dinner’s ready, come. But where’s my wife? is she not come home yet? where is she?

Pinch. Making you a cuckold; ’tis that they all do, as soon as they can.

Spark. What, the wedding-day? no, a wife that designs to make a cully of her husband will be sure to let him win the first stake of love, by the world. But come, they stay dinner for us: come, I’ll lead down our Margery.