were in a snow-house for these three years past? Have I been white
and unsullied even by Sir Paul himself?

SIR PAUL. Nay, she has been an invincible wife, even to me; that's the
truth on't.

LADY PLYANT. Have I, I say, preserved myself like a fair sheet of paper
for you to make a blot upon?

SIR PAUL. And she shall make a simile with any woman in England.

MEL. I am so amazed, I know not what to say.

SIR PAUL. Do you think my daughter, this pretty creature--gadsbud, she's
a wife for a cherubim!--do you think her fit for nothing but to be a
stalking horse, to stand before you, while you take aim at my wife?
Gadsbud, I was never angry before in my life, and I'll never be appeased
again.

MEL. Hell and damnation! This is my aunt; such malice can be engendered
nowhere else. [_Aside_.]

LADY PLYANT. Sir Paul, take Cynthia from his sight; leave me to strike
him with the remorse of his intended crime.

CYNT. Pray, sir, stay, hear him; I dare affirm he's innocent.

SIR PAUL. Innocent! Why, hark'ee--come hither, Thy--hark'ee, I had it
from his aunt, my sister Touchwood. Gadsbud, he does not care a farthing
for anything of thee but thy portion. Why, he's in love with my wife. He
would have tantalised thee, and made a cuckold of thy poor father, and
that would certainly have broke my heart. I'm sure, if ever I should
have horns, they would kill me; they would never come kindly--I should
die of 'em like a child that was cutting his teeth--I should indeed,
Thy--therefore come away; but providence has prevented all, therefore
come away when I bid you.

CYNT. I must obey.

SCENE V.

LADY PLYANT, MELLEFONT.

LADY PLYANT. Oh, such a thing! the impiety of it startles me--to wrong
so good, so fair a creature, and one that loves you tenderly--'tis a
barbarity of barbarities, and nothing could be guilty of it--

MEL. But the greatest villain imagination can form, I grant it; and next
to the villainy of such a fact is the villainy of aspersing me with the
guilt. How? which way was I to wrong her? For yet I understand you not.

LADY PLYANT. Why, gads my life, cousin Mellefont, you cannot be so
peremptory as to deny it, when I tax you with it to your face? for now
Sir Paul's gone, you are _corum nobus_.

MEL. By heav'n, I love her more than life or--

LADY PLYANT. Fiddle faddle, don't tell me of this and that, and
everything in the world, but give me mathemacular demonstration; answer
me di