Squire Sul. Fortune! why, sir, I have no quarrel at her fortune: I only hate the woman, sir, and none but the woman shall go.
Sir Chas. But her fortune, sir—
Squire Sul. Can you play at whisk, sir?
Sir Chas. No, truly, sir.
Squire Sul. Nor at all-fours?
Sir Chas. Neither. [90]
Squire Sul. [Aside.] 'Oons! where was this man bred?— [Aloud.] Burn me, sir! I can't go home, 'tis but two a clock.
Sir Chas. For half an hour, sir, if you please; but you must consider 'tis late.
Squire Sul. Late! that's the reason I can't go to bed.— Come, sir! [Exeunt.
Enter Cherry, runs across the stage, and knocks at Aimwells chamber door. Enter Aimwell in his nightcap and gown.
