Guil. By Mars, the God of Love!
Page. By Cupid, Sir. [Aside to him.
Guil. Cupid, Sirrah! I say, I’ll have it Mars, there’s more Thunder in the Sound: I say, by Mars, these Gallies are pretty neat convenient Tenements—but a—I see ne’er a Chimney in ‘em:—Pox on’t, what have I to do with a Chimney now?
Isa. He is a delicate fine Person, Jacinta; but, methinks he does not make Love enough to me.
Jac. Oh, Madam, Persons of his Quality never make Love in Words, the greatness of their Actions show their Passion.
Jac. Ay, ‘tis true all the little Fellows talk of Love.
Guil. Come, Ladies, set; Come, Isabella, you are melancholy,—Page —Fill my Lady a Beer-glass.
Isa. Ah, Heav’ns, a Beer-glass.
Guil. O, your Viscountess never drinks under your Beer-glass, your Citizens Wives simper and sip, and will be drunk without doing Credit to the Treater; but in their Closets, they swinge it away, whole Slashes, i’faith, and egad, when a Woman drinks by her self, Glasses come thick about: your Gentlewoman, or your little Lady, drinks half way, and thinks in point of good manners, she must leave some at the bottom; but your true bred Woman of Honour drinks all, Supernaculum, by Jove.
Isa. What a misfortune it was, that I should not know this before, but shou’d discover my want of so necessary a piece of Grandeur.