Enter Gripe.
Gripe. O ho!—--are you there, i'faith? Madam, your humble servant, I'm very glad to see you at home. I thought I should never have had that honour again.
Clar. Good-morrow, my dear, how d'ye do? Flippanta says you are out of humour, and that you have a mind to quarrel with me: Is it true? ha!—--I have a terrible pain in my head, I give you notice on't beforehand.
Gripe. And how the pox shou'd it be otherwise? It's a wonder you are not dead [as a' wou'd you were, Aside.] with the life you lead. Are you not ashamed? And do you not blush to——
Clar. My dear child, you crack my brain; soften the harshness of your voice: say what thou wou't, but let it be in an agreeable tone——
Gripe. Tone, Madam, don't tell me of a tone——
Clar. O——if you will quarrel, do it with temperance; let it be all in cool blood, even and smooth, as if you were not moved with what you said; and then I'll hear you as if I were not mov'd with it neither.
Gripe. Had ever man such need of patience? Madam, Madam, I must tell you, Madam——
Clar. Another key, or I'll walk off.
Gripe. Don't provoke me.