Fain. Call for himself? What dost thou mean?

Wit. Mean, why he would slip you out of this chocolate-house, just when you had been talking to him—as soon as your back was turned—whip he was gone;—then trip to his lodging, clap on a hood and scarf, and a mask, slap into a hackney-coach, and drive hither to the door again in a trice; where he would send in for himself, that I mean, call for himself, wait for himself, nay and what’s more, not finding himself, sometimes leave a letter for himself.

Mira. I confess this is something extraordinary—I believe he waits for himself now, he is so long a coming; O I ask his pardon.

SCENE IX

Petulant, Mirabell, Fainall, Witwoud, Betty.

Bet. Sir, the coach stays.

Pet. Well, well; I come.—’Sbud a man had as good be a professed midwife, as a professed whoremaster, at this rate; to be knocked up and raised at all hours, and in all places. Pox on ’em, I won’t come—D’ye hear, tell ’em I won’t come.—Let ’em snivel and cry their hearts out.

Fain. You are very cruel, Petulant.

Pet. All’s one, let it pass—I have a humour to be cruel.

Mira. I hope they are not persons of condition that you use at this rate.

Pet. Condition, condition’s a dried fig, if I am not in humour.—By this hand, if they were your—a—a—your what-dee-call-’ems themselves, they must wait or rub off, if I want appetite.

Mira. What-dee-call-’ems! what are they, Witwoud?

Wit. Empresses, my dear—by your what-dee-call-’ems he means sultana queens.

Pet. Ay, Roxolana’s.

Mira. Cry you mercy.

Fain. Witwoud says they are—

Pet. What does he say th’are?

Wit. I; fine ladies I say.

Pet. Pass on, Witwoud—Harkee. by this light his relations—two co-heiresses his cousins, and an old aunt, who loves catter-wauling better than a conventicle.

Wit. Ha, ha, ha; I had a mind to see how the rogue would come off.—Ha, ha, ha; Gad I can’t be angry with him, if he had said they were my mother and my sisters.

Mira. No!

Wit. No; the rogue’s wit and readiness of invention charm me, dear Petulant.

Bet. They are gone, sir, in great anger.

Pet. Enough, let’em trundel. Anger helps complexion, saves paint.