Dor. Playing with your fan, smelling to your gloves, commending your hair, and taking notice how ’tis cut and shaded after the new way.

Lov. Were it sillier than you can make it, you must allow ’tis pleasanter to laugh at others than to be laughed at ourselves, though never so wittily. Then though they want skill to flatter us, they flatter themselves so well they save us the labour; we need not take that care and pains to satisfy ’em of our love, which we so often lose on you.

Dor. They commonly indeed believe too well of themselves, and always better of you than you deserve.

Lov. You are in the right; they have an implicit faith in us which keeps ’em from prying narrowly into our secrets, and saves us the vexatious trouble of clearing doubts which your subtle and causeless jealousies every moment raise.

Dor. There is an inbred falsehood in women which inclines ’em still to them whom they may most easily deceive.

Lov. The man who loves above his quality does not suffer more from the insolent impertinence of his mistress than the woman who loves above her understanding does from the arrogant presumptions of her friend.

Dor. You mistake the use of fools: they are designed for properties, and not for friends. You have an indifferent stock of reputation left yet. Lose it all like a frank gamester on the square; ’twill then be time enough to turn rook and cheat it up again on a good substantial bubble.

Lov. The old and the ill-favoured are only fit for properties indeed, but young and handsome fools have met with kinder fortunes.

Dor. They have, to the shame of your sex be it spoken; ’twas this, the thought of this, made me, by a timely jealousy, endeavour to prevent the good fortune you are providing for Sir Fopling—but against a woman’s frailty all our care is vain.

Lov. Had I not with a dear experience bought the knowledge of your falsehood, you might have fooled me yet. This is not the first jealousy you have feigned to make a quarrel with me and get a week to throw away on some such unknown inconsiderable slut as you have been lately lurking with at plays.

Dor. Women, when they would break off with a man, never want th’ address to turn the fault on him.

Lov. You take a pride of late in using of me ill, that the town may know the power you have over me, which now (as unreasonably as yourself) expects that I (do me all the injuries you can) must love you still.

Dor. I am so far from expecting that you should, I begin to think you never did love me.

Lov. Would the memory of it were so wholly worn out in me that I did doubt it too! What made you come to disturb my growing quiet?

Dor. To give you joy of your growing infamy.

Lov. Insupportable! insulting devil! this from you, the only author of my shame! This from another had been but justice, but from you ’tis a hellish and inhuman outrage. What have I done?

Dor. A thing that puts you below my scorn and makes my anger as ridiculous as you have made my love. SCENE I.]