That’s hard!

Mrs. Fain. You are very fond of Sir John Suckling to-day, Millamant, and the poets.

Milla. He? Ay, and filthy verses—so I am.

Foib. Sir Wilfull is coming, madam. Shall I send Mr. Mirabell away?

Milla. Ay, if you please, Foible, send him away,—or send him hither,—just as you will, dear Foible.—I think I’ll see him— Shall I? Ay, let the wretch come.

Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train. [Repeating. Dear Fainall, entertain Sir Wilfull—thou hast philosophy to undergo a fool, thou art married and hast patience—I would confer with my own thoughts.

Mrs. Fain. I am obliged to you, that you would make me your proxy in this affair; but I have business of my own.


[To them] Sir Wilfull.

Mrs. Fain. O Sir Wilfull; you are come at the critical instant. There’s your mistress up to the ears in love and contemplation, pursue your point, now or never.

Sir Wil. Yes; my aunt will have it so,—I would gladly have been encouraged with a bottle or two, because I’m somewhat wary at first, before I am acquainted—[This while Milla. walks about repeating to herself.] But I hope, after a time, I shall break my mind—that is upon further acquaintance.—So for the present, cousin, I’ll take my leave—if so be you’ll be so kind to make my excuse, I’ll return to my company—

Mrs. Fain. O fie, Sir Wilfull! What, you must not be daunted.

Sir Wil. Daunted, no, that’s not it, it is not so much for that —for if so be that I set on’t, I’ll do’t. But only for the present, ’tis sufficient ’till further acquaintance, that’s all—your servant.

Mrs. Fain. Nay, I’ll swear you shall never lose so favourable an opportunity, if I can help it. I’ll leave you together, and lock the door.


Sir Wilfull, Millamant.

Sir Wil. Nay, nay, cousin,—I have forgot my gloves.—What d’ye do? ’Sheart, a’ has locked the door indeed, I think—Nay, Cousin Fainall, open the door—Pshaw, what a vixon trick is this?—Nay, now a’ has seen me too—cousin, I made bold to pass through as it were—I think this door’s inchanted—

Milla. [repeating].

I prithee spare me, gentle boy,
Press me no more for that slight toy.

Sir Wil. Anan? Cousin, your servant.

Milla. That foolish trifle of a heart— Sir Wilfull!

Sir Wil. Yes—your servant. No offence, I hope, cousin. Milla. [repeating.]

I swear it will not do its part,
Though thou dost thine, employ’st thy power and art.

  By PanEris using Melati.

Previous chapter/page Back Home Email this Search Discuss Bookmark Next chapter/page
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Ltd, and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission. See our FAQ for more details.