Milla. Well then—I’ll take my death I’m in a horrid fright— Fainall, I shall never say it—Well—I think—I’ll endure you.

Mrs. Fain. Fy, fy, have him, have him, and tell him so in plain terms: for I am sure you have a mind to him.

Milla. Are you? I think I have and the horrid man looks as if he thought so too—Well, you ridiculous thing you, I’ll have you—I won’t be kissed, nor I won’t be thanked—Here, kiss my hand though—so, hold your tongue now, don’t say a word.

Mrs. Fain. Mirabell, there’s a necessity for your obedience; —you have neither time to talk nor stay. My mother is coming; and in my conscience, if she should see you, would fall into fits, and maybe not recover time enough to return to Sir Rowland; who, as Foible tells me, is in a fair way to succeed. Therefore spare your extacies for another occasion, and slip down the back stairs, where Foible waits to consult you.

Milla. Ay, go, go. In the meantime I suppose you have said something to please me.

Mira. I am all obedience.

SCENE VII

Millamant, Mrs. Fainall.

Mrs. Fain. Yonder Sir Wilfull’s drunk; and so noisie that my mother has been forced to leave Sir Rowland to appease him; but he answers her only with singing and drinking— What they may have done by this time I Know not; but Petulant and he were upon quarrelling as I came by.

Milla. Well, if Mirabell should not make a good husband, I am a lost thing; for I find I love him violently.

Mrs. Fain. So it seems; for you mind not what’s said to you. —If you doubt him, you had best take up with Sir Wilfull.

Milla. How can you name that superannuated lubber? foh!

SCENE VIII

[To them] Witwoud from drinking.

Mrs. Fain. So, is the fray made up, that you have left ’em?

Wit. Left ’em? I could stay no longer—I have laughed like ten christnings—I am tipsie with laughing—if I had staid any longer I should have burst,—I must have been let out and pieced in the sides like an unsized camlet—Yes, yes, the fray is composed; my lady came in like a noli prosequi, and stopt the proceedings.

Milla. What was the dispute?

Wit. That’s the jest; there was no dispute. They could neither of ’em speak for rage; and so fell a sputtering at one another like two roasting apples.

SCENE IX

[To them] Petulant drunk.

Wit. Now, Petulant? all’s over, all’s well? Gad, my head begins to whim it about—Why dost thou not speak? thou art both as drunk and as mute as a fish.