Fain. So, so, why this point’s clear.—Well, how do we proceed?

Mrs. Mar. I will contrive a letter which shall be delivered to my lady at the time when that rascal who is to act Sir Rowland is with her. It shall come as from an unknown hand—for the less I appear to know of the truth, the better I can play the incendiary. Besides, I would not have Foible provoked if I could help it,—because you know she knows some passages—nay, I expect all will come out—but let the mine be sprung first, and then I care not if I am discovered.

Fain. If the worst come to the worst, I’ll turn my wife out to grass—I have already a deed of settlement of the best part of her estate; which I wheadled out of her; and that you shall partake at least.

Mrs. Mar. I hope you are convinced that I hate Mirabell now: you’ll be no more jealous?

Fain. Jealous, no,—by this kiss—let husbands be jealous; but let the lover still believe: or if he doubt, let it be only to endear his pleasure, and prepare the joy that follows, when he proves his mistress true. But let husbands’ doubts convert to endless jealousie; or if they have belief, let it corrupt to superstition, and blind credulity. I am single, and will herd no more with ’em. True, I wear the badge, but I’ll disown the order. And since I take my leave of ’em, I care not if I leave ’em a common motto to their common crest.