Fain. This continence is all dissembled; this is in order to have something to brag of the next time he makes court to Millamant, and swear he has abandoned the whole sex for her sake.

Mira. Have you not left off your impudent pretensions there yet? I shall out your throat, sometime or other, Petulant, about that business.

Pet. Ay, ay, let that pass—there are other throats to be cut.—

Mira. Meaning mine, sir?

Pet. Not I—I mean nobody—I know nothing.—But there are uncles and nephews in the world—and they may be rivals—What then? All’s one for that—

Mira. How! Harkee, Petulant, come hither—Explain, or I shall call your interpreter.

Pet. Explain; I know nothing.—Why you have an uncle, have you not, lately come to town, and lodges by my Lady Wishfort’s?

Mira. True.

Pet. Why that’s enough—you and he are not friends; and if he should marry and have a child, you may be disinherited, ha?

Mira. Where hast thou stumbled upon all this truth?

Pet. All’s one for that; why then say I know something.

Mira. Come, thou art an honest fellow, Petulant, and shalt make love to my mistress, thou shalt, faith. What hast thou heard of my uncle?

Pet. I, nothing I. If throats are to be cut, let swords clash; snug’s the word, I shrug and am silent.

Mira. O raillery, raillery. Come, I know thou art in the women’s secrets.—What you’re a cabalist, I know you staid at Millamant’s last night, after I went. Was there any mention made of my uncle or me? Tell me; if thou hadst but good nature equal to thy wit, Petulant, Tony Witwoud, who is now thy competitor in fame, would shew as dim by thee as a dead whiting’s eye by a pearl of Orient; he would no more be seen by thee, than Mercury is by the sun: Come, I’m sure thou wo’t tell me.

Pet. If I do, will you grant me common sense then, for the future?

Mira. Faith I’ll do what I can for thee, and I’ll pray that Heaven may grant it thee in the meantime.

Pet. Well, harkee.

Fain. Petulant and you both will find Mirabell as warm a rival as a lover.

Wit. Pshaw, pshaw, that she laughs at Petulant is plain. And for my part—but that it is almost a fashion to admire her, I should—harkee—to tell you a secret, but let it go no further—between friends, I shall never break my heart for her.

Fain. How!

Wit. She’s handsome; but she’s a sort of an uncertain woman.

Fain. I thought you had died for her.

Wit. Umh—no—