ANG. ’Tis very unhappy, if you don’t care for one another.
TATT. The least in the world—that is for my part: I speak for myself. Gad, I never had the least thought of serious kindness.—I never liked anybody less in my life. Poor woman! Gad, I’m sorry for her too, for I have no reason to hate her neither; but I believe I shall lead her a damned sort of a life.
MRS. FORE. He’s better than no husband at all—though he’s a coxcomb. [_To_ FRAIL.]
MRS. FRAIL [_to her_]. Ay, ay, it’s well it’s no worse.—Nay, for my part I always despised Mr. Tattle of all things; nothing but his being my husband could have made me like him less.
TATT. Look you there, I thought as much. Pox on’t, I wish we could keep it secret; why, I don’t believe any of this company would speak of it.
MRS. FRAIL. But, my dear, that’s impossible: the parson and that rogue Jeremy will publish it.
TATT. Ay, my dear, so they will, as you say.
ANG. Oh, you’ll agree very well in a little time; custom will make it easy to you.
TATT. Easy! Pox on’t, I don’t believe I shall sleep to-night.
SIR SAMP. Sleep, quotha! No; why, you would not sleep o’ your wedding-night? I’m an older fellow than you, and don’t mean to sleep.
BEN. Why, there’s another match now, as thof a couple of privateers were looking for a prize and should fall foul of one another. I’m sorry for the young man with all my heart. Look you, friend, if I may advise you, when she’s going—for that you must expect, I have experience of her—when she’s going, let her go. For no matrimony is tough enough to hold her; and if she can’t drag her anchor along with her, she’ll break her cable, I can tell you that. Who’s here? The madman?
VALENTINE, SCANDAL, SIR SAMPSON, ANGELICA, FORESIGHT, MRS. FORESIGHT, TATTLE, MRS. FRAIL, BEN, JEREMY, BUCKRAM.
VAL. No; here’s the fool, and if occasion be, I’ll give it under my hand.
VAL. Sir, I’m come to acknowledge my errors, and ask your pardon.
SIR SAMP. What, have you found your senses at last then? In good time, sir.
VAL. You were abused, sir: I never was distracted.
SCAN. No, really, sir. I’m his witness; it was all counterfeit.
VAL. I thought I had reasons—but it was a poor contrivance, the effect has shown it such.
SIR SAMP. Contrivance! What, to cheat me? to cheat your father? Sirrah, could you hope to prosper?