How is’t, Cuz?
Aria. So, here’s the saucy freedom of a Husband Lover—a blest Invention this of marrying, whoe’er first found it out.
Beau. Damn this English Dog of a Perriwig-maker, what an ungainly Air it gives the Face, and for a Wedding Perriwig too—how dost thou like it, Ariadne? [Uneasy.
Aria. As ill as the Man—I perceive you have taken more care for your Perriwig than your Bride.
Beau. And with reason, Ariadne, the Bride was never the care of the Lover, but the business of the Parents; ’tis a serious Affair, and ought to be manag’d by the grave and wise: Thy Mother and my Uncle have agreed the Matter, and would it not look very sillily in me now to whine a tedious Tale of Love in your Ear, when the business is at an end? ’tis like saying a Grace when a Man should give Thanks.
Aria. Why did you not begin sooner then?
Beau. Faith, Ariadne, because I know nothing of the Design in hand; had I had civil warning, thou shouldst have had as pretty smart Speeches from me, as any Coxcomb Lover of ’em all could have made thee.
Aria. I shall never marry like a Jew in my own Tribe; I’ll rather be possest by honest old doating Age, than by saucy conceited Youth, whose Inconstancy never leaves a Woman safe or quiet.
Beau. You know the Proverb of the half Loaf, Ariadne; a Husband that will deal thee some Love is better than one who can give thee none: you would have a blessed time on’t with old Father Carlo.
Aria. No matter, a Woman may with some lawful excuse cuckold him, and ’twould be scarce a Sin.