think that's pretty and
metaphorical enough; i'gad I could not have said it out of thy company.
Careless, ha?

CARE. Hum, ay, what is't?

BRISK. _O mon coeur_! What is't! Nay, gad, I'll punish you for want of
apprehension. The deuce take me if I tell you.

MEL. No, no, hang him, he has no taste. But, dear Brisk, excuse me, I
have a little business.

CARE. Prithee get thee gone; thou seest we are serious.

MEL. We'll come immediately, if you'll but go in and keep up good humour
and sense in the company. Prithee do, they'll fall asleep else.

BRISK. I'gad, so they will. Well, I will, I will; gad, you shall
command me from the Zenith to the Nadir. But the deuce take me if I say
a good thing till you come. But prithee, dear rogue, make haste, prithee
make haste, I shall burst else. And yonder your uncle, my Lord
Touchwood, swears he'll disinherit you, and Sir Paul Plyant threatens to
disclaim you for a son-in-law, and my Lord Froth won't dance at your
wedding to-morrow; nor, the deuce take me, I won't write your
Epithalamium--and see what a condition you're like to be brought to.

MEL. Well, I'll speak but three words, and follow you.

BRISK. Enough, enough. Careless, bring your apprehension along with
you.

SCENE III.

MELLEFONT, CARELESS.

CARE. Pert coxcomb.

MEL. Faith, 'tis a good-natured coxcomb, and has very entertaining
follies. You must be more humane to him; at this juncture it will do me
service. I'll tell you, I would have mirth continued this day at any
rate; though patience purchase folly, and attention be paid with noise,
there are times when sense may be unseasonable as well as truth. Prithee
do thou wear none to-day, but allow Brisk to have wit, that thou may'st
seem a fool.

CARE. Why, how now, why this extravagant proposition?

MEL. Oh, I would have no room for serious design, for I am jealous of a
plot. I would have noise and impertinence keep my Lady Touchwood's head
from working: for hell is not more busy than her brain, nor contains more
devils than that imaginations.

CARE. I thought your fear of her had been over. Is not to-morrow
appointed for your marriage with Cynthia, and her father, Sir Paul
Plyant, come to settle the writings this day on purpose?

MEL. True; but you shall judge whether I have not reason to be alarmed.
None besides you and Maskwell are acquainted with the secret of my Aunt
Touchwood's violent passion for me. Since my fir