, no,
you shoot wide of the mark a mile; indeed you do, that's not it, Mr.
Careless; no, no, that's not it.

CARE. No? What can be the matter then?

SIR PAUL. You'll scarcely believe me when I shall tell you--my lady is
so nice. It's very strange, but it's true; too true--she's so very nice,
that I don't believe she would touch a man for the world. At least not
above once a year; I'm sure I have found it so; and, alas, what's once a
year to an old man, who would do good in his generation? Indeed it's
true, Mr. Careless, it breaks my heart. I am her husband, as I may say;
though far unworthy of that honour, yet I am her husband; but alas-a-day,
I have no more familiarity with her person--as to that matter--than with
my own mother--no indeed.

CARE. Alas-a-day, this is a lamentable story. My lady must be told
on't. She must i'faith, Sir Paul; 'tis an injury to the world.

SIR PAUL. Ah! would to heaven you would, Mr. Careless; you are mightily
in her favour.

CARE. I warrant you, what! we must have a son some way or other.

SIR PAUL. Indeed I should be mightily bound to you if you could bring it
about, Mr. Careless.

LADY PLYANT. Here, Sir Paul, it's from your steward. Here's a return of
600 pounds; you may take fifty of it for the next half year. [_Gives him
the letter_.]

SCENE IX.

[_To them_] LORD FROTH, CYNTHIA.

SIR PAUL. How does my girl? Come hither to thy father, poor lamb:
thou'rt melancholic.

LORD FROTH. Heaven, Sir Paul, you amaze me, of all things in the world.
You are never pleased but when we are all upon the broad grin: all laugh
and no company; ah, then 'tis such a sight to see some teeth. Sure
you're a great admirer of my Lady Whifler, Mr. Sneer, and Sir Laurence
Loud, and that gang.

SIR PAUL. I vow and swear she's a very merry woman; but I think she
laughs a little too much.

LORD FROTH. Merry! O Lord, what a character that is of a woman of
quality. You have been at my Lady Whifler's upon her day, madam?

CYNT. Yes, my lord. I must humour this fool. [_Aside_.]

LORD FROTH. Well, and how? hee! What is your sense of the conversation?

CYNT. Oh, most ridiculous, a perpetual comfort of laughing without any
harmony; for sure, my lord, to laugh out of time, is as disagreeable as
to sing out of time or out of tune.

LORD FROTH. Hee, hee, hee, right; and then, my Lady Whifler is so
ready--she always comes in three bars too soon. And then, what do they