No matter for that; 'tis for the Honour of England, that all Europe should know we have Blockheads of all Ages.

MIRABELL. I wonder there is not an Act of Parliament to save the Credit of the Nation, and prohibit the Exportation of Fools.

FAINALL. By no means, 'tis better as 'tis; 'tis better to Trade with a little Loss, than to be quite eaten up, with being overstock'd.

MIRABELL. Pray, are the Follies of this Knight- Errant, and those of the Squire his Brother, any thing related?

FAINALL. Not at all; Witwoud grows by the Knight, like a Medlar grafted on a Crab. One will melt in your Mouth, and t'other set your Teeth on edge; one is all Pulp, and the other all Core.

MIRABELL. So one will be rotten before he be ripe, and the other will be rotten without ever being ripe at all.

FAINALL. Sir Wilfull is an odd mixture of Bashfulness and Obstinacy –– But when he's drunk, he's as loving as the Monster in the Tempest; and much after the same manner. To give the t'other his due; he has something of good Nature, and does not always want Wit.

MIRABELL. Not always; but as often as his Memory fails him, and his common place of Comparisons. He is a Fool with a good Memory, and some few Scraps of other Folks Wit. He is one whose Conversation can never be approv'd, yet it is now and then to be endur'd. He has indeed one good Quality, he is not Exceptious; for he so passionately affects the Reputation of understanding Raillery; that he will construe an Affront into a Jest; and call downright Rudeness and ill Language, Satyr and Fire.

FAINALL. If you have a mind to finish his Picture, you have an opportunity to do it at full length. Behold the Original.

 

Enter Witwoud.

 

WITWOUD. Afford me your Compassion, my Dears; pity me, Fainall, Mirabell, pity me.

MIRABELL. I do from my Soul.

FAINALL. Why, what's the Matter?

WITWOUD. No Letters for me, Betty?

BETTY. Did not the Messenger bring you one but now, Sir?

WITWOUD. Ay, but no other?

BETTY. No, Sir.

WITWOUD. That's hard, that's very hard; – A Messenger, a Mule, a Beast of Burden, he has brought me a Letter from the Fool my Brother, as heavy as a Panegyrick in a Funeral Sermon, or a Copy of Commendatory Verses from one Poet to another. And what's worse, 'tis as sure a forerunner of the Author, as an Epistle Dedicatory.

MIRABELL. A Fool, and your Brother, Witwoud!

WITWOUD. Ay, ay, my half Brother. My half Brother he is, no nearer, upon Honour.

MIRABELL. Then 'tis possible he may be but half a Fool.

WITWOUD. Good, good Mirabell, le Drole! Good, good, hang him, don't let's talk of him: – Fainall, how does your Lady? Gad, I say any thing in the World to get this Fellow out of my Head. I beg Pardon that I shou'd ask a Man of Pleasure, and the Town, a Question at once so Foreign and Domestick.