But I talk like an old Maid at a Marriage, I don't know what I say: But she's the best Woman in the World.

FAINALL. 'Tis well you don't know what you say, or else your Commendation wou'd go near to make me either Vain or Jealous.

WITWOUD. No Man in Town lives well with a Wife but Fainall: Your Judgment Mirabell.

MIRABELL. You had better step and ask his Wife; if you wou'd be credibly inform'd.

WITWOUD. Mirabell.

MIRABELL. Ay.

WITWOUD. My Dear, I ask ten thousand Pardons; – Gad I have forgot what I was going to say to you.

MIRABELL. I thank you heartily, heartily.

WITWOUD. No, but prithee excuse me, –– my Memory is such a Memory.

MIRABELL. Have a care of such Apologies, Witwoud; – for I never knew a Fool but he affected to complain, either of the Spleen or his Memory.

FAINALL. What have you done with Petulant?

WITWOUD. He's reckoning his Mony, –– my Mony it was, –– I have no Luck to Day.

FAINALL. You may allow him to win of you at Play; – for you are sure to be too hard for him at Repartee: since you monopolize the Wit that is between you, the Fortune must be his of Course.

MIRABELL. I don't find that Petulant confesses the Superiority of Wit to be your Talent, Witwoud.

WITWOUD. Come, come, you are malicious now, and wou'd breed Debates. – Petulant's my Friend, and a very honest Fellow, and a very pretty Fellow, and has a smattering – Faith and Troth a pretty deal of an odd sort of a small Wit: Nay, I'll do him Justice. I'm his Friend, I won't wrong him neither –– And if he had but any Judgment in the World, –– he wou'd not be altogether contemptible. Come come, don't detract from the Merits of my Friend.

FAINALL. You don't take your Friend to be overnicely bred.

WITWOUD. No, no, hang him, the Rogue has no Manners at all, that I must own –– No more breeding than a Bum-baily, that I grant you, –– 'Tis Pity faith; the Fellow has Fire and Life.

MIRABELL. What, Courage?

WITWOUD. Hum, faith I don't know as to that, – I can't say as to that. – Yes, Faith, in a Controversie he'll contradict any Body.

MIRABELL. Tho' 'twere a Man whom he fear'd, or a Woman whom he lov'd.

WITWOUD. Well, well, he does not always think before he speaks; – We have all our Failings; you're too hard upon him, you are, faith. Let me excuse him; – I can defend most of his Faults, except one or two; one he has, that's the Truth on't, if he were my Brother, I cou'd not acquit him –– That indeed I cou'd wish were otherwise.

MIRABELL. Ay marry, what's that, Witwoud?

WITWOUD. O pardon me –– Expose the Infirmities of my Friend. – No, my Dear, excuse me there.

FAINALL. What I warrant he's unsincere, or 'tis some such Trifle.

WITWOUD.