Lady Fan. Your Mirth's as nauseous as yourself. Belinda, you think you triumph over a Rival now: Helas! ma pauvre fille. Where'er I'm Rival, there's no Cause for Mirth. No, my poor Wretch, 'tis from another Principle I have acted. I knew that Thing there wou'd make so perverse a Husband, and you so impertinent a Wife, that left your mutual Plagues should make you both run mad, I charitably would have broke the Match. He! he! he! he! he!
[Exit, laughing affectedly, Madamoiselle following her.
Madam. He! he! he! he! he!
All. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
Sir John. [Aside.] Why, now, this Woman will be married to somebody, too.
Bel. Poor Creature! what a Passion she's in! But I forgive her.
Heart. Since you have so much Goodness for her, I hope you'll pardon my Offence, too, Madam.
Bel. There will be no great Difficulty in that, since I am guilty of an equal Fault.
Heart. Then Pardons being past on all sides, pray let's to Church to conclude the Day's Work.