ACT IV., SCENE II.
A Room in Bonifaces Inn. Enter Aimwell and Archer laughing.
Arch. And the awkward kindness of the good motherly old gentlewoman—
Aim. And the coming easiness of the young one— 'Sdeath, 'tis pity to deceive her!
Arch. Nay, if you adhere to these principles, stop where you are.
Aim. I can't stop; for I love her to distraction.
Arch. 'Sdeath, if you love her a hair's-breadth beyond discretion, you must go no further. 9
Aim. Well, well, anything to deliver us from sauntering away our idle evenings at White's, Tom's, or Will's and be stinted to bare looking at our old acquaintance, the cards; because our impotent pockets can't afford us a guinea for the mercenary drabs.
Arch. Or be obliged to some purse-proud coxcomb for a scandalous bottle, where we must not pretend to our share of the discourse, because we can't pay our club o' th' reckoning.—Damn it, I had rather sponge upon Morris, and sup upon a dish of bones scored behind the door!