Char. Ha,—What’s the matter here?
Scar. Seignior Don Charmante. [Then he struts courageously in with ‘em.
Char. What, Cinthio in a Rage! Who’s the unlucky Object?
Cin. All Man and Woman Kind: Elaria’s false.
Char. Elaria false! take heed, sure her nice Virtue
Is proof against the Vices of her Sex.
Say rather Bellemante,
She who by Nature’s light and wavering.
The Town contains not such a false Impertinent.
This Evening I surpriz’d her in her Chamber,
Writing of Verses, and between her Lines
Some Spark had newly pen’d his proper Stuff.
Curse of the Jilt, I’ll be her Fool no more.
Har. I doubt you are mistaken in that, Sir, for ‘twas I was the Spark that writ the proper Stuff To do you service.
Char. Thou!
Scar. Ay, we that spend our Lives and Fortunes here to serve you,—to be us’d like Pimps and Scoundrels. Come, Sir, satisfy him who ‘twas was hid i’th’ Closet, when he came in and found you.
Cin. Ha,—is’t possible? Was it Charmante?
Char. Was it you, Cinthio? Pox on’t, what Fools are we, we cou’d not know one another by Instinct?