Mira. Ay.

Wit. My dear, I ask ten thousand pardons;—Gad I have forgot what I was going to say to you.

Mira. I thank you heartily, heartily.

Wit. No, but prithee excuse me,—my memory is such a memory.

Mira. Have a care of such apologies, Witwoud;—for I never knew a fool but he affected to complain, either of the spleen or his memory.

Fain. What have you done with Petulant?

Wit. He’s reckoning his mony,—my mony it was—I have no luck to-day.

Fain. You may allow him to win of you at play;—for you are sure to be too hard for him at repartee: since you monopolise the wit that is between you, the fortune must be his of course.

Mira. I don’t find that Petulant confesses the superiority of wit to be your talent, Witwoud.

Wit. Come, come, you are malicious now, and would breed debates—Petulant’s my friend, and a very honest fellow, and a very pretty fellow, and has a smattering—faith and troth a pretty deal of an odd sort of a small wit: Nay, I’ll do him justice. I’m his friend, I won’t wrong him.—And if he had any judgment in the world,—he would not be altogether contemptible. Come, come, don’t detract from the merits of my friend.

Fain. You don’t take your friend to be over-nicely bred.

Wit. No, no, hang him, the rogue has no manners at all, that I must own—no more breeding than a bum-baily, that I grant you.—’Tis pity; the fellow has fire and life.

Mira. What, courage?

Wit. Hum, faith I don’t know as to that,—I can’t say as to that.—Yes, faith, in a controversie he’ll contradict anybody.

Mira. Though ’twere a man whom he feared, or a woman whom he loved.

Wit. Well, well, he does not always think before he speaks;—We have all our failings; you are too hard upon him, you are, faith. Let me excuse him,—I can defend most of his faults, except one or two; one he has, that’s the truth on’t, if he were my brother, I could not acquit him—that indeed I could wish were otherwise.

Mira. Ay marry, what’s that, Witwoud?

Wit. O pardon me—expose the infirmities of my friend.—No, my dear, excuse me there.

Fain. What I warrant he’s unsincere, or ’tis some such trifle.

Wit. No, no, what if he be? ’Tis no matter for that, his wit will excuse that: a wit should no more be sincere, than a woman constant; one argues a decay of parts, as t’other of beauty.

Mira. Maybe you think him too positive?

Wit. No, no, his being positive is an incentive to argument, and keeps up conversation.

Fain. Too illiterate.