Plays, written by Sir John Vanbrugh, volume the first

by John Vanbrugh

Const. Pha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

Heart. Nay, then we shall have it: What, because a Man stumbles at a Word: did you never make a Blunder?

Const. Yes; for I am in Love, I own it.

Heart. Then, so am I—Now laugh till thy Soul's glutted with Mirth. [Embracing him.] But, dear Constant, don't tell the Town on't.

Const. Nay, then, 'twere almost pity to laugh at thee, after so honest a Confession. But tell us a little, Jack, by what new-invented Arms has this mighty Stroke been given?

Heart. E'en by that unaccountable Weapon call'd Je-ne-sçai-quoy: For every thing that can come within the Verge of Beauty, I have seen it with indifference.

Const. So in few Words, then, the Je-ne-sçai-quoy has been too hard for the quilted Petticoat.

Heart. I'gad, I think the Je-ne-sçai-quoy is in the quilted Petticoat; at least 'tis certain, I ne'er think on't without——a——a Je-ne-sçai-quoy in every Part about me.

Const. Well, but have all your Remedies lost their Virtue? Have you turn'd her inside out yet?