_Oriana._ And I'll rattle about the city, to run you in debt for more.
_Y. Mir._ I'll tear the furbelow off your clothes, and when you swoon for vexation, you shan't have a penny, to buy a bottle of hartshorn.
_Oriana._ And you, sir, shall have hartshorn in abundance.
_Y. Mir._ I'll keep as many mistresses as I have coach horses.
_Oriana._ And I'll keep as many gallants as you have grooms.
_Y. Mir._ But, sweet madam, there is such a thing as a divorce!
_Oriana._ But, sweet sir, there is such a thing as alimony! so divorce on, and spare not. [_Exit._
_Y. Mir._ Ay, that separate maintenance is the devil--there's their refuge!--O' my conscience, one would take cuckoldom for a meritorious action, because the women are so handsomely rewarded for it. [_Exit._
_Dur._ And she's mighty peevish, you say?
_Petit._ O sir, she has a tongue as long as my leg, and talks so crabbedly, you would think she always spoke Welsh.
_Dur._ That's an odd language, methinks, for her philosophy.
_Petit._ But sometimes she will sit you half a day without speaking a word, and talk oracles all the while by the wrinkles of her forehead, and the motions of her eyebrows.
_Dur._ Nay, I shall match her in philosophical ogles, 'faith!--that's my talent: I can talk best, you must know, when I say nothing.
_Petit._ Why, she's a critic, sir, she hates a jest, for fear it should please her; and nothing keeps her in humour, but what gives her the spleen.--And then, for logic, and all that, you know----
_Dur._ Ay, ay, I'm prepared, I have been practising hard words and no sense, this hour, to entertain her.
_Petit._ Then place yourself behind this screen, that you may have a view of her behaviour before you begin.
_Dur._ I long to engage her, lest I should forget my lesson.
_Petit._ Here she comes, sir--I must fly. [_Exit_ PETIT, _and_ DURETETE _stands peeping behind the Curtain_.
_Bis._ [_With a Book._] Pshaw! hang books! they sour our temper, spoil our eyes, and ruin our complexions. [_Throws away the Book._
_Dur._ Eh? the devil such a word there is in all Aristotle!
_Bis._ Come, wench, let's be free--call in the fiddle, there's nobody near us.
_Bis._ Here, friend, a minuet----[_Music._] Quicker time--ha--'would we had a man or two!