Isab. And canst thou think they were address’d to thee?
Wit. No, nor cou’d the Shade of Night hide the Confusion which disorder’d you, at the discovery that I was not he, the blessed he you look’d for.
Isab. Leave me, thou hated Object of my Soul.
Wit. This will not serve your turn, for I must marry you.
Isab. Then thou art a Fool, and drawest thy Ruin on; why, I will hate thee,—hate thee most extremely.
Wit. That will not anger me.
Isab. Why, I will never let thee touch me, nor kiss my Hand, nor come into my sight.
Wit. Are there no other Women kind, fair, and to be purchas’d? he cannot starve for Beauty in this Age, that has a stock to buy.
Isab. Why, I will cuckold thee, look to’t, I will most damnably.
Wit. So wou’d you, had you lov’d me, in a year or two; therefore like a kind civil Husband, I’ve made provision for you, a Friend, and one I dare trust my Honour with,—’tis Mr. Knowell, Madam.