Oliv. Prithee no more of her—Love spoils a fine Gentleman: Gaming, Whoring and Fighting may qualify a Man for Conversation; but Love perverts all one’s Thoughts, and makes us fit Company for none but one’s self; for even a Mistress can scarce dispense with a fighting, whining Lover’s Company long, though all he says flatters her Pride.
Geo. Why dost thou trifle with me, when thou knowest the Violence of my Love?
Oliv. I wish I could any way divert your Thoughts from her, I would not have your Joy depend on such a fickle Creature.
Geo. Mirtilla false! What, my Mirtilla false!
Oliv. Even your Mirtilla’s false, and married to another.
Geo. Married! Mirtilla married! ’Tis impossible.
Oliv. Nay, married to that bawling, drinking Fool, Sir Morgan Blunder.
Geo. Married, and married to Sir Morgan Blunder! a Sot, an ill-bred senseless Fool; almost too great a Fool to make a Country Justice?
Oliv. No doubt, she had her Aims in’t, he’s a very convenient Husband, I’ll assure you, and that suits her Temper: he has Estate and Folly enough, and she has Youth and Wantonness enough to match ’em.
Geo. Her Choice gives me some Comfort, and some Hopes; for I’ll pursue her, but for Revenge, not Love.