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a retailer of phrases, and dost deal in remnants of remnants, like a maker of pincushionsā ā€”thou art in truth (metaphorically speaking) a speaker of shorthand. Petulant Thou art (without a figure) just one half of an ass, and Baldwin yonder,84 thy half-brother, is the rest.ā ā€”A Gemini of asses split would make just four of you.85 Witwoud Thou dost bite, my dear mustard-seed; kiss me for that. Petulant Stand offā ā€”Iā€™ll kiss no more malesā ā€”I have kissed your twin yonder in a humour of reconciliation till he Hiccups. rises upon my stomach like a radish. Mrs. Millamant Eh! filthy creature! what was the quarrel? Petulant There was no quarrelā ā€”there might have been a quarrel. Witwoud If there had been words enow between ā€™em to have expressed provocation, they had gone together by the ears like a pair of castanets. Petulant You were the quarrel. Mrs. Millamant Me! Petulant If I have a humour to quarrel, I can make less matters conclude premises.ā ā€”If you are not handsome, what then? If I have a humour to prove it? If I shall have my reward, say so; if not, fight for your face the next time yourselfā ā€”Iā€™ll go sleep. Witwoud Do, wrap thyself up like a woodlouse, and dream revenge.ā ā€”and, hear me, if thou canst learn to write by tomorrow morning, pen me a challenge.ā ā€”Iā€™ll carry it for thee. Petulant Carry your mistressā€™s monkey a spider!ā ā€”Go flea dogs and read romances. Iā€™ll go to bed to my maid. Exit. Mrs. Fainall Heā€™s horridly drunk.ā ā€”How came you all in this pickle? Witwoud A plot! a plot! to get rid of the knightā ā€”your husbandā€™s advice; but he sneaked off. Scene II

The dining room in Lady Wishfortā€™s house.

Sir Wilfull drunk, Lady Wishfort, Witwoud, Mrs. Millamant, and Mrs. Fainall. Lady Wishfort Out uponā€™t, out uponā€™t! At years of discretion, and comport yourself at this rantipole rate! Sir Wilful No offence, aunt. Lady Wishfort Offence! as Iā€™m a person, Iā€™m ashamed of youā ā€”foh! How you stink of wine! Dā€™ye think my niece will ever endure such a Borachio!86 Youā€™re an absolute Borachio. Sir Wilful Borachio? Lady Wishfort At a time when you should commence an amour, and put your best foot foremostā ā€” Sir Wilful

Sā€™heart, an you grutch me your liquor, make a billā ā€”give me more drink, and take my purseā ā€”Sings.

Prithee fill me the glass,
Till it laugh in my face,
With ale that is potent and mellow;
He that whines for a lass
Is an ignorant ass,
For a bumper has not its fellow.

But if you would have me marry my cousinā ā€”say the word, and Iā€™ll doā€™tā ā€”Wilfull will doā€™t, thatā€™s the wordā ā€”Wilfull will doā€™t, thatā€™s my crestā ā€”my motto I have forgot.

Lady Wishfort My nephewā€™s a little overtaken, cousinā ā€”but ā€™tis drinking your health.ā ā€”Oā€™ my word, you are obliged to him. Sir Wilful

In vino veritas, aunt.ā ā€”If I drunk your health today, cousinā ā€”I am a Borachio. But if you have a mind to be married, say the word and send for the piper; Wilfull will doā€™t. If not, dust it away, and letā€™s have tā€™other round.ā ā€”Tony!ā ā€”Ods-heart, whereā€™s Tony!ā ā€”Tonyā€™s an honest fellow, but he spits after a bumper, and thatā€™s a faultā ā€”Sings.

Weā€™ll drink and weā€™ll never haā€™ done, boys,
Put the glass then around with the sun, boys,
Let Apolloā€™s example invite us;
For heā€™s drunk every night,
And that makes him so bright,
That heā€™s able next morning to light us.

The sunā€™s a good pimple, an honest soaker, he has a cellar at your antipodes. If I travel, aunt, I touch at your antipodesā ā€”your antipodes are a good rascally sort of topsy-turvy fellows. If I had a bumper Iā€™d stand upon my head and drink a health to ā€™em.ā ā€”A match or no match, cousin with the hard name?ā ā€”Aunt, Wilfull will doā€™t. If she has her maidenhead let her look to ā€™t; if she has not, let her keep her own counsel in the meantime, and cry out at the nine monthsā€™ end.

Mrs. Millamant Your pardon, madam, I can stay no longerā ā€”Sir Wilfull grows very powerful. Eh! how he smells! I shall be overcome if I stay.ā ā€”Come, cousin. Exeunt Mrs. Millamant and Mrs. Fainall. Lady Wishfort Smells! He would poison a tallow-chandler and his family! Beastly creature, I know not what to do with him.ā ā€”Travel, quotha; aye, travel, travel, get thee gone, get thee but far enough, to the Saracens, or the Tartars, or the Turks!ā ā€”for thou art not fit to live in a Christian commonwealth, thou beastly pagan! Sir Wilful

Turks, no; no Turks, aunt: your Turks are infidels, and believe not in the grape. Your Muhammadan, your Mussulman is a dry stinkardā ā€”no offence, aunt. My map says that your Turk is not so honest a man as your Christian. I cannot find by the map that your Mufti is orthodoxā ā€”whereby it is a plain case that orthodox is a hard word, aunt, and Hiccups. Greek for claret.ā ā€”Sings.

To drink is a Christian diversion,
Unknown to the Turk or the Persian.
Let Muhammadan fools
Live by heathenish rules,
And be damned over teacups and coffee.
But let British lads sing,
Crown a health to the King,
And a fig for your Sultan and Sophy.

Ah, Tony!

Enter Foible, who whispers to Lady Wishfort. Lady Wishfort Aside to Foible.ā ā€”Sir Rowland impatient? Good lack! what shall I do with this beastly tumbril?ā ā€”Aloud. Go lie down and sleep, you sot!ā ā€”or as Iā€™m a person, Iā€™ll have you bastinadoed with broomsticks.87ā ā€”Call up the wenches. Sir Wilful Ahey! Wenches, where are the wenches? Lady Wishfort Dear Cousin Witwoud, get him away, and you will bind me to you inviolably. I have an affair of moment that invades me with some precipitationā ā€”you will oblige me to all futurity. Witwoud Come, knight.ā ā€”Pox on him, I donā€™t know what to say to him.ā ā€”Will you go to a cock-match? Sir Wilful With a wench, Tony? Is she a shakebag, sirrah? Let me bite your cheek for that. Witwoud Horrible! He has a breath like a bagpipe!ā ā€”Aye, aye; come, will you march, my Salopian?88 Sir Wilful

Lead on, little Tonyā ā€”Iā€™ll follow thee, my Anthony,

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