The Way of the World

Act IV

Scene I

A room in Lady Wishfort’s house.

	Lady Wishfort and Foible.
Lady Wishfort	Is Sir Rowland coming, say’st thou, Foible? And are things in order?
Foible	Yes, madam. I have put wax lights in the sconces, and placed the footmen in a row in the hall, in their best liveries, with the coachman and postillion to fill up the equipage.
Lady Wishfort	Have you pulvilled the coachman and postillion, that they may not stink of the stable when Sir Rowland comes by?
Foible	Yes, madam.
Lady Wishfort	And are the dancers and the music ready, that he may be entertained in all points with correspondence to his passion?
Foible	All is ready, madam.
Lady Wishfort	And⁠—well⁠—and how do I look, Foible?
Foible	Most killing well, madam.
Lady Wishfort	Well, and how shall I receive him? In what figure shall I give his heart the first impression? There is a great deal in the first impression. Shall I sit?⁠—no, I won’t sit⁠—I’ll walk⁠—aye, I’ll walk from the door upon his entrance, and then turn full upon him⁠—no, that will be too sudden. I’ll lie⁠—aye, I’ll lie down⁠—I’ll receive him in my little dressing-room; there’s a couch⁠—yes, yes, I’ll give the first impression on a couch⁠—I won’t lie neither, but loll and lean upon one elbow, with one foot a little dangling off, jogging in a thoughtful way⁠—yes⁠—and then as soon as he appears, start, aye, start and be surprised, and rise to meet him in a pretty disorder⁠—yes⁠—oh, nothing is more alluring than a levee from a couch in some confusion. It shows the foot to advantage, and furnishes with blushes and re-composing airs beyond comparison. Hark! There’s a coach.
Foible	’Tis he, madam.
Lady Wishfort	Oh dear⁠—has my nephew made his addresses to Millamant? I ordered him.
Foible	Sir Wilfull is set in to drinking, madam, in the parlour.
Lady Wishfort	Ods my life, I’ll send him to her. Call her down, Foible; bring her hither. I’ll send him as I go⁠—when they are together, then come to me, Foible, that I may not be too long alone with Sir Rowland.
	Exit.
	Enter Mrs. Millamant* and Mrs. Fainall.*
Foible	Madam, I stayed here to tell your ladyship that Mr. Mirabell has waited this half hour for an opportunity to talk with you; though my lady’s orders were to leave you and Sir Wilfull together. Shall I tell Mr. Mirabell that you are at leisure?
Mrs. Millamant	No⁠—what would the dear man have? I am thoughtful and would amuse myself⁠—bid him come another time.
	There never yet was woman made, Nor shall, but to be cursed. Repeating and walking about.
	That’s hard!
Mrs. Fainall	You are very fond of Sir John Suckling72 today, Millamant, and the poets.
Mrs. Millamant	He? Aye, and filthy verses⁠—so I am.
Foible	Sir Wilfull is coming, madam. Shall I send Mr. Mirabell away?
Mrs. Millamant	Aye, if you please, Foible, send him away⁠—or send him hither⁠—just as you will, dear Foible.⁠—I think I’ll see him⁠—shall I? Aye, let the wretch come.
	Exit Foible.
	Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train.73 Repeating.
	Dear Fainall, entertain Sir Wilfull⁠—thou hast philosophy to undergo a fool; thou art married and hast patience⁠—I would confer with my own thoughts.
Mrs. Fainall	I am obliged to you that you would make me your proxy in this affair; but I have business of my own.
	Enter Sir Wilfull.
Mrs. Fainall	O Sir Wilfull, you are come at the critical instant. There’s your mistress up to the ears in love and contemplation; pursue your point, now or never.
Sir Wilful	Yes, my aunt will have it so⁠—I would gladly have been encouraged with a bottle or two, because I’m somewhat wary at first, before I am acquainted. This while Mrs. Millamant* walks about repeating to herself.* But I hope, after a time, I shall break my mind⁠—that is, upon further acquaintance⁠—so for the present, cousin, I’ll take my leave. If so be you’ll be so kind to make my excuse, I’ll return to my company⁠—
Mrs. Fainall	Oh, fie, Sir Wilfull! What, you must not be daunted.
Sir Wilful	Daunted? No, that’s not it; it is not so much for that⁠—for if so be that I set on’t I’ll do’t. But only for the present, ’tis sufficient till further acquaintance, that’s all⁠—your servant.
Mrs. Fainall	Nay, I’ll swear you shall never lose so favourable an opportunity, if I can help it. I’ll leave you together and lock the door.
	Exit.
Sir Wilful	Nay, nay, cousin⁠—I have forgot my gloves. What d’ye do?⁠—S’heart, a’has locked the door indeed, I think⁠—nay, cousin Fainall, open the door⁠—pshaw, what a vixen trick is this? Nay, now a has seen me too.⁠—Cousin, I made bold to pass through as it were⁠—I think this door’s enchanted.
Mrs. Millamant	Repeating. I prithee spare me, gentle boy, Press me no more for that slight toy.74
Sir Wilful	Anan? Cousin, your servant.
Mrs. Millamant	Repeating. That foolish trifle of a heart. Sir Wilfull!
Sir Wilful	Yes⁠—your servant. No offence, I hope, cousin?
Mrs. Millamant	Repeating. I swear it will not do its part, Though thou dost thine, employ’st thy power and art. Natural, easy Suckling!
Sir Wilful	Anan? Suckling? No such suckling neither, cousin, nor stripling: I thank Heaven I’m no minor.
Mrs. Millamant	Ah, rustic, ruder than Gothic!
Sir Wilful	Well, well, I shall understand your lingo one of these days, cousin; in the meanwhile I must answer in plain English.
Mrs. Millamant	Have you any business with me, Sir Wilfull?
Sir Wilful	Not at present, cousin⁠—yes, I made bold to see, to come and know if that how you were disposed to fetch a walk this evening, if so be that I might not be troublesome, I would have sought a walk with you.
Mrs. Millamant	A walk! What then?
Sir Wilful	Nay, nothing⁠—only for the walk’s sake, that’s all.
Mrs. Millamant	I nauseate walking: ’tis a country diversion; I loathe the country and everything that relates to it.
Sir Wilful	Indeed! Ha! Look ye, look ye, you do? Nay, ’tis like you may⁠—here are choice of pastimes here in town, as plays and the like, that must be confessed indeed.
Mrs. Millamant	Ah, l’étourdi! I hate the town too.
Sir Wilful	Dear heart, that’s much⁠—ha! that you should hate ’em both! Ha! ’tis like you may! There are some can’t relish the town, and others can’t away with the country⁠—’tis like you may be one of those, cousin.
Mrs. Millamant	Ha! ha! ha! Yes, ’tis like I may.⁠—You have nothing further to say to me?
Sir Wilful	Not at present, cousin.⁠—’Tis like when I have an opportunity to be more private⁠—I may break my mind in some measure⁠—I conjecture you partly guess⁠—however, that’s as time shall try. But spare to speak and spare to speed, as they say.
Mrs. Millamant	If it is of no great importance, Sir Wilfull, you will oblige me to leave me: I have just now a little business⁠—
Sir Wilful	Enough, enough, cousin. Yes, yes, all a case.75⁠—when you’re disposed: now’s as well as another time; and another time as well as now. All’s one for that⁠—yes, yes; if your concerns call you, there’s no haste: it will keep cold as they say.⁠—Cousin, your servant⁠—I think this door’s locked.
Mrs. Millamant	You may go this way, sir.
Sir Wilful	Your servant; then with your leave I’ll return to my company.
	Exit.
Mrs. Millamant	Aye, aye; ha! ha! ha! Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy.76
	Enter Mirabell.
Mirabell	“Like Daphne she, as lovely and as coy.” Do you lock yourself up from me, to make my search more curious? Or is this pretty artifice contrived, to signify that here the chase must end, and my pursuit be crowned, for you can fly no further?
Mrs. Millamant	Vanity! No⁠—I’ll fly and be followed to the last moment; though I am upon the very verge of matrimony, I expect you should solicit me as much as if I were wavering at the grate of a monastery, with one foot over the threshold. I’ll be solicited to the very lastn nay, and afterwards.
Mirabell	What, after the last?
Mrs. Millamant	Oh, I should think I was poor and had nothing to bestow if I were reduced to an inglorious ease, and freed from the agreeable fatigues of solicitation.
Mirabell	But do not you know that when favours are conferred upon instant and tedious solicitation, that they diminish in their value, and that both the giver loses the grace, and the receiver lessens his pleasure?
Mrs. Millamant	It may be in things of common application,77 but never, sure, in love. Oh, I hate a lover that can dare to think he draws a moment’s air independent on the bounty of his mistress. There is not so impudent a thing in nature as the saucy look of an assured man confident of success: the pedantic arrogance of a very husband has not so pragmatical an air. Ah! I’ll never marry, unless I am first made sure of my will and pleasure.
Mirabell	Would you have ’em both before marriage? Or will you be contented with the first now, and stay for the other till after grace?
Mrs. Millamant	Ah, don’t be impertinent.⁠—My dear liberty, shall I leave thee? My faithful solitude, my darling contemplation, must I bid you then adieu? Aye-h, adieu⁠—my morning thoughts, agreeable wakings, indolent slumbers, all ye douceurs, ye sommeils du matin,78 adieu?⁠—I can’t do’t, ’tis more than impossible⁠—positively, Mirabell, I’ll lie abed in a morning as long as I please.
Mirabell	Then I’ll get up in a morning as early as I please.
Mrs. Millamant	Ah! Idle creature, get up when you will⁠—and d’ye hear, I won’t be called names after I’m married; positively I won’t be called names.
Mirabell	Names!
Mrs. Millamant	Aye, as wife, spouse, my dear, joy, jewel, love, sweetheart, and the rest of that nauseous cant, in which men and their wives are so fulsomely familiar⁠—I shall never bear that⁠—good Mirabell, don’t let us be familiar or fond, nor kiss before folks, like my Lady Fadler and Sir Francis; nor go to Hyde Park together the first Sunday in a new chariot, to provoke eyes and whispers, and then never be seen there together again, as if we were proud of one another the first week, and ashamed of one another ever after. Let us never visit together, nor go to a play together, but let us be very strange and well-bred. Let us be as strange as if we had been married a great while, and as well-bred as if we were not married at all.
Mirabell	Have you any more conditions to offer? Hitherto your demands are pretty reasonable.
Mrs. Millamant	Trifles!⁠—As liberty to pay and receive visits to and from whom I please; to write and receive letters, without interrogatories or wry faces on your part; to wear what I please, and choose conversation with regard only to my own taste; to have no obligation upon me to converse with wits that I don’t like, because they are your acquaintance, or to be intimate with fools, because they may be your relations. Come to dinner when I please, dine in my dressing-room when I’m out of humour, without giving a reason. To have my closet inviolate; to be sole empress of my tea-table, which you must never presume to approach without first asking leave. And lastly, wherever I am, you shall always knock at the door before you come in. These articles subscribed, if I continue to endure you a little longer, I may by degrees dwindle into a wife.
Mirabell	Your bill of fare is something advanced in this latter account.⁠—Well, have I liberty to offer conditions⁠—that when you are dwindled into a wife, I may not be beyond measure enlarged into a husband?
Mrs. Millamant	You have free leave: propose your utmost, speak and spare not.
Mirabell	I thank you.⁠—Imprimis, then, I covenant that your acquaintance be general; that you admit no sworn confidant or intimate of your own sex; no she friend to screen her affairs under your countenance, and tempt you to make trial of a mutual secrecy. No decoy-duck to wheedle you a fop-scrambling to the play in a mask⁠—then bring you home in a pretended fright, when you think you shall be found out⁠—and rail at me for missing the play, and disappointing the frolic which you had to pick me up and prove my constancy.
Mrs. Millamant	Detestable imprimis! I go to the play in a mask!
Mirabell	Item, I article, that you continue to like your own face as long as I shall, and while it passes current with me, that you endeavour not to new coin it. To which end, together with all vizards for the day, I prohibit all masks for the night, made of oiled skins and I know not what⁠—hog’s bones, hare’s gall, pig water, and the marrow of a roasted cat.79 In short, I forbid all commerce with the gentlewomen in what-d’ye-call-it court. Item, I shut my doors against all bawds with baskets, and pennyworths of muslin, china, fans, atlases, etc.⁠—Item, when you shall be breeding⁠—
Mrs. Millamant	Ah, name it not.
Mirabell	Which may be presumed, with a blessing on our endeavours⁠—
Mrs. Millamant	Odious endeavours!
Mirabell	I denounce against all strait lacing, squeezing for a shape, till you mould my boy’s head like a sugar-loaf, and instead of a man-child, make me father to a crooked billet. Lastly, to the dominion of the tea-table I submit⁠—but with proviso, that you exceed not in your province, but restrain yourself to native and simple tea-table drinks, as tea, chocolate, and coffee. As likewise to genuine and authorised tea-table talk⁠—such as mending of fashions, spoiling reputations, railing at absent friends, and so forth⁠—but that on no account you encroach upon the men’s prerogative, and presume to drink healths, or toast fellows; for prevention of which, I banish all foreign forces, all auxiliaries to the tea-table, as orange-brandy, all aniseed, cinnamon, citron, and Barbados waters,80 together with ratafia and the most noble spirit of clary⁠—but for cowslip-wine, poppy-water, and all dormitives, those I allow.⁠—These provisos admitted, in other things I may prove a tractable and complying husband.
Mrs. Millamant	Oh, horrid provisos! Filthy strong waters! I toast fellows, odious men! I hate your odious provisos.
Mirabell	Then we’re agreed. Shall I kiss your hand upon the contract? And here comes one to be a witness to the sealing of the deed.
	Enter Mrs. Fainall.
Mrs. Millamant	Fainall, what shall I do? Shall I have him? I think I must have him.
Mrs. Fainall	Aye, aye, take him, take him, what should you do?
Mrs. Millamant	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. Fainall	Fie, fie, have him, and tell him so in plain terms: for I am sure you have a mind to him.
Mrs. Millamant	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. Fainall	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 ecstasies for another occasion, and slip down the back stairs, where Foible waits to consult you.
Mrs. Millamant	Aye, go, go. In the meantime I suppose you have said something to please me.
Mirabell	I am all obedience.
	Exit.
Mrs. Fainall	Yonder Sir Wilfull’s drunk, and so noisy 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.
Mrs. Millamant	Well, if Mirabell should not make a good husband, I am a lost thing: for I find I love him violently.
Mrs. Fainall	So it seems; for you mind not what’s said to you.⁠—If you doubt him, you had best take up with Sir Wilfull.
Mrs. Millamant	How can you name that superannuated lubber? foh!
	Enter Witwoud.
Mrs. Fainall	So, is the fray made up that you have left ’em?
Witwoud	Left ’em? I could stay no longer⁠—I have laughed like ten Christ’nings. I am tipsy with laughing⁠—if I had stayed any longer I should have burst⁠—I must have been let out and pieced in the sides like an unsized camlet.81 Yes, yes, the fray is composed; my lady came in like a noli prosequi,82 and stopped the proceedings.
Mrs. Millamant	What was the dispute?
Witwoud	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.
	Enter Petulant, drunk.
Witwoud	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.
Petulant	Look you, Mrs. Millamant⁠—if you can love me, dear Nymph⁠—say it⁠—and that’s the conclusion⁠—pass on, or pass off⁠—that’s all.
Witwoud	Thou hast uttered volumes, folios, in less than decimo sexto, my dear Lacedemonian.83 Sirrah, Petulant, thou art an epitomizer of words.
Petulant	Witwoud⁠—you are an annihilator of sense.
Witwoud	Thou art a retailer of phrases, and dost deal in remnants of remnants, like a maker of pincushions⁠—thou art in truth (metaphorically speaking) a speaker of shorthand.
Petulant	Thou art (without a figure) just one half of an ass, and Baldwin yonder,84 thy half-brother, is the rest.⁠—A Gemini of asses split would make just four of you.85
Witwoud	Thou dost bite, my dear mustard-seed; kiss me for that.
Petulant	Stand off⁠—I’ll kiss no more males⁠—I have kissed your twin yonder in a humour of reconciliation till he Hiccups. rises upon my stomach like a radish.
Mrs. Millamant	Eh! filthy creature! what was the quarrel?
Petulant	There was no quarrel⁠—there might have been a quarrel.
Witwoud	If there had been words enow between ’em to have expressed provocation, they had gone together by the ears like a pair of castanets.
Petulant	You were the quarrel.
Mrs. Millamant	Me!
Petulant	If I have a humour to quarrel, I can make less matters conclude premises.⁠—If you are not handsome, what then? If I have a humour to prove it? If I shall have my reward, say so; if not, fight for your face the next time yourself⁠—I’ll go sleep.
Witwoud	Do, wrap thyself up like a woodlouse, and dream revenge.⁠—and, hear me, if thou canst learn to write by tomorrow morning, pen me a challenge.⁠—I’ll carry it for thee.
Petulant	Carry your mistress’s monkey a spider!⁠—Go flea dogs and read romances. I’ll go to bed to my maid.
	Exit.
Mrs. Fainall	He’s horridly drunk.⁠—How came you all in this pickle?
Witwoud	A plot! a plot! to get rid of the knight⁠—your husband’s advice; but he sneaked off.

Scene II

The dining room in Lady Wishfort’s house.

	Sir Wilfull drunk, Lady Wishfort, Witwoud, Mrs. Millamant, and Mrs. Fainall.
Lady Wishfort	Out upon’t, out upon’t! At years of discretion, and comport yourself at this rantipole rate!
Sir Wilful	No offence, aunt.
Lady Wishfort	Offence! as I’m a person, I’m ashamed of you⁠—foh! How you stink of wine! D’ye think my niece will ever endure such a Borachio!86 You’re an absolute Borachio.
Sir Wilful	Borachio?
Lady Wishfort	At a time when you should commence an amour, and put your best foot foremost⁠—
Sir Wilful	S’heart, an you grutch me your liquor, make a bill⁠—give me more drink, and take my purse⁠—Sings. Prithee fill me the glass, Till it laugh in my face, With ale that is potent and mellow; He that whines for a lass Is an ignorant ass, For a bumper has not its fellow. But if you would have me marry my cousin⁠—say the word, and I’ll do’t⁠—Wilfull will do’t, that’s the word⁠—Wilfull will do’t, that’s my crest⁠—my motto I have forgot.
Lady Wishfort	My nephew’s a little overtaken, cousin⁠—but ’tis drinking your health.⁠—O’ my word, you are obliged to him.
Sir Wilful	In vino veritas, aunt.⁠—If I drunk your health today, cousin⁠—I am a Borachio. But if you have a mind to be married, say the word and send for the piper; Wilfull will do’t. If not, dust it away, and let’s have t’other round.⁠—Tony!⁠—Ods-heart, where’s Tony!⁠—Tony’s an honest fellow, but he spits after a bumper, and that’s a fault⁠—Sings. We’ll drink and we’ll never ha’ done, boys, Put the glass then around with the sun, boys, Let Apollo’s example invite us; For he’s drunk every night, And that makes him so bright, That he’s able next morning to light us. The sun’s a good pimple, an honest soaker, he has a cellar at your antipodes. If I travel, aunt, I touch at your antipodes⁠—your antipodes are a good rascally sort of topsy-turvy fellows. If I had a bumper I’d stand upon my head and drink a health to ’em.⁠—A match or no match, cousin with the hard name?⁠—Aunt, Wilfull will do’t. If she has her maidenhead let her look to ’t; if she has not, let her keep her own counsel in the meantime, and cry out at the nine months’ end.
Mrs. Millamant	Your pardon, madam, I can stay no longer⁠—Sir Wilfull grows very powerful. Eh! how he smells! I shall be overcome if I stay.⁠—Come, cousin.
	Exeunt Mrs. Millamant* and Mrs. Fainall.*
Lady Wishfort	Smells! He would poison a tallow-chandler and his family! Beastly creature, I know not what to do with him.⁠—Travel, quotha; aye, travel, travel, get thee gone, get thee but far enough, to the Saracens, or the Tartars, or the Turks!⁠—for thou art not fit to live in a Christian commonwealth, thou beastly pagan!
Sir Wilful	Turks, no; no Turks, aunt: your Turks are infidels, and believe not in the grape. Your Muhammadan, your Mussulman is a dry stinkard⁠—no offence, aunt. My map says that your Turk is not so honest a man as your Christian. I cannot find by the map that your Mufti is orthodox⁠—whereby it is a plain case that orthodox is a hard word, aunt, and Hiccups. Greek for claret.⁠—Sings. To drink is a Christian diversion, Unknown to the Turk or the Persian. Let Muhammadan fools Live by heathenish rules, And be damned over teacups and coffee. But let British lads sing, Crown a health to the King, And a fig for your Sultan and Sophy. Ah, Tony!
	Enter Foible, who whispers to Lady Wishfort.
Lady Wishfort	Aside to Foible.⁠—Sir Rowland impatient? Good lack! what shall I do with this beastly tumbril?⁠—Aloud. Go lie down and sleep, you sot!⁠—or as I’m a person, I’ll have you bastinadoed with broomsticks.87⁠—Call up the wenches.
Sir Wilful	Ahey! Wenches, where are the wenches?
Lady Wishfort	Dear Cousin Witwoud, get him away, and you will bind me to you inviolably. I have an affair of moment that invades me with some precipitation⁠—you will oblige me to all futurity.
Witwoud	Come, knight.⁠—Pox on him, I don’t know what to say to him.⁠—Will you go to a cock-match?
Sir Wilful	With a wench, Tony? Is she a shakebag, sirrah? Let me bite your cheek for that.
Witwoud	Horrible! He has a breath like a bagpipe!⁠—Aye, aye; come, will you march, my Salopian?88
Sir Wilful	Lead on, little Tony⁠—I’ll follow thee, my Anthony, my Tantony. Sirrah, thou shalt be my Tantony, and I’ll be thy pig. Sings. And a fig for your Sultan and Sophy.
	Exeunt Sir Wilfull* and Witwoud.*
Lady Wishfort	This will never do. It will never make a match⁠—at least before he has been abroad.
	Enter Waitwell* disguised as Sir Rowland.*
Lady Wishfort	Dear Sir Rowland, I am confounded with confusion at the retrospection of my own rudeness!⁠—I have more pardons to ask than the pope distributes in the year of jubilee. But I hope where there is likely to be so near an alliance, we may unbend the severity of decorum, and dispense with a little ceremony.
Waitwell	My impatience, madam, is the effect of my transport; and till I have the possession of your adorable person, I am tantalised on the rack, and do but hang, madam, on the tenter of expectation.
Lady Wishfort	You have excess of gallantry, Sir Rowland, and press things to a conclusion with a most prevailing vehemence.⁠—But a day or two for decency of marriage⁠—
Waitwell	For decency of funeral, madam! The delay will break my heart⁠—or if that should fail, I shall be poisoned. My nephew will get an inkling of my designs and poison me⁠—and I would willingly starve him before I die⁠—I would gladly go out of the world with that satisfaction. That would be some comfort to me, if I could but live so long as to be revenged on that unnatural viper!
Lady Wishfort	Is he so unnatural, say you? Truly I would contribute much both to the saving of your life, and the accomplishment of your revenge.⁠—Not that I respect myself; though he has been a perfidious wretch to me.
Waitwell	Perfidious to you!
Lady Wishfort	O Sir Rowland, the hours that he has died away at my feet, the tears that he has shed, the oaths that he has sworn, the palpitations that he has felt, the trances and the tremblings, the ardours and the ecstasies, the kneelings and the risings, the heart-heavings and the hand-gripings, the pangs and the pathetic regards of his protesting eyes!⁠—Oh, no memory can register.
Waitwell	What, my rival? Is the rebel my rival?⁠—a’dies.
Lady Wishfort	No, don’t kill him at once, Sir Rowland, starve him gradually, inch by inch.
Waitwell	I’ll do’t. In three weeks he shall be barefoot; in a month out at knees with begging an alms.⁠—He shall starve upward and upward, ’till he has nothing living but his head, and then go out in a stink like a candle’s end upon a save-all.
Lady Wishfort	Well, Sir Rowland, you have the way⁠—you are no novice in the labyrinth of love⁠—you have the clue.⁠—But as I am a person, Sir Rowland, you must not attribute my yielding to any sinister appetite or indigestion of widowhood; nor impute my complacency to any lethargy of continence⁠—I hope you do not think me prone to any iteration of nuptials⁠—
Waitwell	Far be it from me⁠—
Lady Wishfort	If you do, I protest I must recede⁠—or think that I have made a prostitution of decorums, but in the vehemence of compassion, and to save the life of a person of so much importance⁠—
Waitwell	I esteem it so.
Lady Wishfort	Or else you wrong my condescension.
Waitwell	I do not, I do not!
Lady Wishfort	Indeed you do.
Waitwell	I do not, fair shrine of virtue!
Lady Wishfort	If you think the least scruple of causality was an ingredient⁠—
Waitwell	Dear madam, no. You are all camphire and frankincense, all chastity and odour.
Lady Wishfort	Or that⁠—
	Enter Foible.
Foible	Madam, the dancers are ready, and there’s one with a letter, who must deliver it into your own hands.
Lady Wishfort	Sir Rowland, will you give me leave? Think favourably, judge candidly, and conclude you have found a person who would suffer racks in honour’s cause, dear Sir Rowland, and will wait on you incessantly.
	Exit.
Waitwell	Fie, fie! What a slavery have I undergone! Spouse, hast thou any cordial? I want spirits.
Foible	What a washy rogue art thou, to pant thus for a quarter of an hour’s lying and swearing to a fine lady!
Waitwell	Oh, she is the antidote to desire. Spouse, thou wilt fare the worse for’t. I shall have no appetite to iteration of nuptials⁠—this eight-and-forty hours. By this hand I’d rather be a chairman in the dog-days⁠—than act Sir Rowland till this time tomorrow.
	Reenter Lady Wishfort, with a letter.
Lady Wishfort	Call in the dancers.⁠—Sir Rowland, we’ll sit, if you please, and see the entertainment. A Dance. Now, with your permission, Sir Rowland, I will peruse my letter.⁠—I would open it in your presence, because I would not make you uneasy. If it should make you uneasy, I would burn it.⁠—Speak if it does⁠—but you may see, the superscription is like a woman’s hand.
Foible	Aside to Waitwell. By Heaven! Mrs. Marwood’s, I know it.⁠—My heart aches⁠—get it from her!
Waitwell	A woman’s hand! No madam, that’s no woman’s hand, I see that already. That’s somebody whose throat must be cut.
Lady Wishfort	Nay, Sir Rowland, since you give me a proof of your passion by your jealousy, I promise you I’ll make a return by a frank communication.⁠—You shall see it⁠—we’ll open it together⁠—look you here.⁠—Reads.⁠—“Madam, though unknown to you”⁠—Look you there, ’tis from nobody that I know.⁠—“I have that honour for your character, that I think myself obliged to let you know you are abused. He who pretends to be Sir Rowland is a cheat and a rascal.”⁠—O Heavens! what’s this?
Foible	Aside. Unfortunate! All’s ruined!
Waitwell	How, how, let me see, let me see!⁠—Reads. “A rascal, and disguised and suborned for that imposture”⁠—O villainy! O villainy!⁠—“by the contrivance of⁠—”
Lady Wishfort	I shall faint, I shall die. Oh!
Foible	Aside to Waitwell. Say ’tis your nephew’s hand. Quickly, his plot, swear, swear it!
Waitwell	Here’s a villain! Madam, don’t you perceive it? Don’t you see it?
Lady Wishfort	Too well, too well. I have seen too much.
Waitwell	I told you at first I knew the hand.⁠—A woman’s hand? The rascal writes a sort of a large hand; your Roman hand⁠—I saw there was a throat to be cut presently. If he were my son, as he is my nephew, I’d pistol him!
Foible	O treachery!⁠—But are you sure, Sir Rowland, it is his writing?
Waitwell	Sure? Am I here? Do I live? Do I love this pearl of India? I have twenty letters in my pocket from him in the same character.
Lady Wishfort	How!
Foible	Oh, what luck it is, Sir Rowland, that you were present at this juncture!⁠—This was the business that brought Mr. Mirabell disguised to Madam Millamant this afternoon. I thought something was contriving, when he stole by me and would have hid his face.
Lady Wishfort	How, how!⁠—I heard the villain was in the house indeed; and now I remember, my niece went away abruptly when Sir Wilfull was to have made his addresses.
Foible	Then, then, madam, Mr. Mirabell waited for her in her chamber! but I would not tell your ladyship to discompose you when you were to receive Sir Rowland.
Waitwell	Enough, his date is short.
Foible	No, good Sir Rowland, don’t incur the law.
Waitwell	Law! I care not for law. I can but die, and ’tis in a good cause.⁠—My lady shall be satisfied of my truth and innocence, though it cost me my life.
Lady Wishfort	No, dear Sir Rowland, don’t fight: if you should be killed I must never show my face; or hanged⁠—oh, consider my reputation, Sir Rowland!⁠—No, you shan’t fight⁠—I’ll go in and examine my niece; I’ll make her confess. I conjure you, Sir Rowland, by all your love not to fight.
Waitwell	I am charmed, madam; I obey. But some proof you must let me give you; I’ll go for a black box, which contains the writings of my whole estate, and deliver that into your hands.
Lady Wishfort	Aye, dear Sir Rowland, that will be some comfort; bring the black box.
Waitwell	And may I presume to bring a contract to be signed this night? May I hope so far?
Lady Wishfort	Bring what you will; but come alive, pray come alive. Oh, this is a happy discovery!
Waitwell	Dead or alive I’ll come⁠—and married we will be in spite of treachery; aye, and get an heir that shall defeat the last remaining glimpse of hope in my abandoned nephew. Come, my buxom widow:
	Ere long you shall substantial proof receive, That I’m an arrant knight⁠—
Foible	Aside. Or arrant knave.
	Exeunt.