Dar. Much good may it do you with your tame Coxcomb.
Ran. Well, Sir, then you yield the Prize?
Dar. Ay, Gad, were she an Angel, that can prefer such a callow Fop as thou before a Man—take her and domineer. They all laugh.
—’Sdeath, am I grown ridiculous?
Fear. Why hast thou not found the Jest? by Heaven, ’tis Ranter, ’tis she that loves you; carry on the humour. Aside.
Faith, Sir, if I were you, I wou’d [devote] my self to Madam Ranter.
Chris. Ay, she’s [the fittest] Wife for you, she’ll fit your Humour.
Dar. Ranter—Gad, I’d sooner marry a she-Bear, unless for a Penance for some horrid Sin; we should be eternally challenging one another to the Field, and ten to one she beats me there; or if I should escape there, she wou’d kill me with drinking.
Ran. Here’s a Rogue—does your Country abound with such Ladies?
Dar. The Lord forbid, half a dozen wou’d ruin the Land, debauch all the Men, and scandalize all the Women.