Bel. Your Pipe would make you too thoughtful, Uncle, if you were left alone; our Prittle-prattle will cure your Spleen.
Sir John. Will it so, Mrs. Pert? Now I believe it will so increase it, [Sitting and smoaking.] I shall take my own House for a Paper-mill.
Lady Brute. [To Bel. aside.] Don't let's mind him; let him say what he will.
Sir John. A Woman's Tongue a Cure for the Spleen!—Oons—[Aside.] If a Man had got the Head-ach, they'd be for applying the same Remedy.
Lady Brute. You have done a great deal, Belinda, since yesterday.
Bel. Yes, I have work'd very hard; how do you like it?
Lady Brute. O, 'tis the prettiest Fringe in the World. Well, Cousin, you have the happiest Fancy: Pr'ythee, advise me about altering my Crimson Petticoat.
Sir John. A Pox o' your Petticoat! Here's such a Prating, a Man can't digest his own Thoughts for you.
Lady Brute. Don't answer him. [Aside.] Well, what do you advise me?