Sir J. What, a down bed and a strumpet? A pox of venery, I say. Will you come and drink with me this afternoon?

Con. I can’t drink to-day; but we’ll come and sit an hour with you if you will.

Sir J. Pooh! pox! sit an hour! Why can’t you drink?

Con. Because I’m to see my mistress.

Sir J. Who’s that?

Con. Why, do you use to tell?

Sir J. Yes.

Con. So won’t L.

Sir J. Why?

Con. Because it is a secret.

Sir J. Would my wife knew it! ’twould be no secret long.

Con. Why, do you think she can’t keep a secret?

Sir J. No more than she could keep Lent.

Heart. Pr’ythee, tell it her, to try, Constant.

Sir J. No, pr’ythee, don’t, that I mayn’t be plagued with it.

Con. I’ll hold you a guinea you don’t make her tell it you.

Sir J. I’ll hold you a guinea I do.

Con. Which way?

Sir J. Why, I’ll beg her not to tell it me.

Heart. Nay, if anything does it, that will.

Con. But do you think, sir—

Sir J. 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. D—n them both, with all my heart, and everything else that daggles a petticoat, except four generous whores who are drunk with my Lord Rake and I ten times in a fortnight.

[Exit.

Con. 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 you fortunate. If anything can prevail with her to accept a gallant, ’tis his usage of her. Pr’ythee, take heart; I have great hopes for you: and, since I can’t bring you quite off her, I’ll endeavour to bring you quite on; for a whining lover is the d—dest companion upon earth.