Hang him,
I have much to do, indeed, to cry for him!
[Enter WILDRAKE]
Wild. Your servant, neighbour Constance.
Con. Servant, sir!
Now what, I wonder, comes the fool to say,
Makes him look so important?
Wild. Neighbour Constance,
I am a happy man.
Con. What makes you so?
Wild. A thriving suit.
Con. In Chancery?
Wild. Oh, no!
In love.
Con. Oh, true! You are in love! Go on!
Wild. Well, as I said, my suit's a thriving one.
Con. You mean you are beloved again!--I don't
Believe it.
Wild. I can give you proof.
Con. What proof?
Love letters? She's a shameless maid
To write them! Can she spell? Ay, I suppose
With prompting of a dictionary!
Wild. Nay
Without one.
Con. I will lay you ten to one
She cannot spell! How know you she can spell?
You cannot spell yourself! You write command
With a single M-C-O-M-A-N-D:
Yours to Co-mand.
Wild. I did not say she wrote
Love letters to me.
Con. Then she suffers you to press
Her hand, perhaps?
Wild. She does.
Con. Does she press yours?
Wild. She does.--It goes on swimmingly! [Aside.]
Con. She does!
She is no modest woman! I'll be bound,
Your arm the madam suffers round her waist?
Wild. She does!
Con.
Pages:
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79