Mar. Oh! the Devil; you have spoilt my Plot! you have ruin'd my play, ye Blockheads! ye Villains, I'll kill you all, burn the Book, and hang my self! (Throws down the Book, and stamps upon it.
L. Whiff. Taking up the Book.) Hold, Madam! Don't let Passion provoke you, like the Knight of old, to destroy what After-ages cannot equal.
Mar. Why, my Lord Amorous, and Isabella was to come in, and their wou'd have been such a Scene! Asses! Ideots! Jolts! But they shall never speak a Line of mine, if it wou'd save 'em from in evitable ruine; I'll carry it to t'other House this very Moment.
Mr. Awd. Won't ye go home to Dinner first?
Mar. Dinner be damn'd! I'll never eat more. See too! if any of their impudent People come to beg my Pardon! or appease me! Well, I will go, that's resolv'd.
Mr. Prais. Madam, consider; cou'd they not stoop agen, when Isabella's come in; I'll try how 'tis. (stoops Oun's 'tis Devillish painful.
Mar. Don't tell me, 'tis painful; if they'll do nothing for their Livings, let 'em starve and be hang'd. My Chair there.
L. Whiff. Madam, my Coach is at your Service, it waits without.
Mar. To be seen in my Lord's Coach is some Consolation (aside My Lord, I desire to go directly into Lincoln's-Inn-Fields.
L. Whiff. Where you please, Madam.