Vill. That's as most Brides do. The charms that helped to catch the Husband, are generally laid by, one after another, 'till the Lady grows a downright Wife, and then runs crying to her Mother, because she has transform'd her Lover into a downright Husband.
Har. Listen to me.—I ha'n't slept to-night, for thinking of plots to plague Doricourt;—and they drove one another out of my head so quick, that I was as giddy as a goose, and could make nothing of 'em.——I wish to goodness you could contrive something.
Vill. Contrive to plague him! Nothing so easy. Don't undeceive him, Madam, 'till he is your Husband. Marry him whilst he possesses the sentiments you labour'd to give him of Miss Hardy—and when you are his Wife——
Let. Oh, Heavens! I see the whole—that's the very thing. My dear Mr. Villers, you are the divinest Man.
Vill. Don't make love to me, Hussey.
Enter Mrs. Racket.
Mrs. Rack. No, pray don't—for I design to have Villers myself in about six years.—There's an oddity in him that pleases me.—He holds Women in contempt; and I should like to have an opportunity of breaking his heart for that.
Vill. And when I am heartily tired of life, I know no Woman whom I would with more pleasure make my Executioner.
Har. It cannot be——I foresee it will be impossible to bring it about. You know the wedding wasn't to take place this week or more—and Letty will never be able to play the Fool so long.
Vill. The knot shall be tied to-night.——I have it all here, (pointing to his forehead:) the licence is ready. Feign yourself ill, send for Doricourt, and tell him you can't go out of the world in peace, except you see the ceremony performed.