So, if my poor Mother is caught in a Contract, you will discover the Imposture betimes; and release her by producing a Certificate of her Gallants former Marriage.

MIRABELL. Yes, upon Condition she consent to my Marriage with her Niece, and surrender the Moiety of her Fortune in her Possession.

MRS. FAINALL. She talk'd last Night of endeavouring at a Match between Millamant and your Uncle.

MIRABELL. That was by Foible's Direction, and my Instruction, that she might seem to carry it more privately.

MRS. FAINALL. Well, I have an Opinion of your Success; for I believe my Lady will do any thing to get a Husband; and when she has this, which you have provided for her, I suppose she will submit to any thing to get rid of him.

MIRABELL. Yes, I think the good Lady wou'd marry any Thing that resembl'd a Man, tho' 'twere no more than what a Butler cou'd pinch out of a Napkin.

MRS. FAINALL. Female Frailty! We must all come to it, if we live to be Old and feel the craving of a false Appetite when the true is decay'd.

MIRABELL. An old Woman's Appetite is deprav'd like that of a Girl –– 'Tis the Green Sickness of a second Childhood; and like the faint Offer of a latter Spring, serves but to usher in the Fall; and withers in an affected Bloom.

MRS. FAINALL. Here's your Mistress.

 

Enter Mrs. Millamant, Witwoud, and Mincing.

 

MIRABELL. Here she comes i'faith full sail, with her Fan spread and her Streamers out, and a shoal of Fools for Tenders –– Ha, no, I cry her Mercy.

MRS. FAINALL. I see but one poor empty Sculler; and he tows her Woman after him.

MIRABELL. You seem to be unattended, Madam –– You us'd to have the Beau-mond Throng after you; and a Flock of gay fine Perrukes hovering round you.

WITWOUD. Like Moths about a Candle –– I had like to have lost my Comparison for want of Breath.

MILLAMANT. O I have deny'd my self Airs to Day. I have walk'd as fast through the Crowd –

WITWOUD. As a Favourite in disgrace; and with as few Followers.

MILLAMANT. Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your Similitudes: For I am as sick of 'em –

WITWOUD. As a Phisician of a good Air –– I cannot help it Madam, tho' 'tis against my self.

MILLAMANT. Yet again! Mincing, stand between me and his Wit.

WITWOUD. Do Mrs. Mincing, like a Skreen before a great Fire. I confess I do blaze to Day, I am too bright.

MRS. FAINALL.