Gripe. Why, for the trade you drive, my soul.
Flip. Look you, Sir, pray take things right. I know Madam does fret you a little now and then, that's true; but in the fund, she is the softest, sweetest, gentlest lady breathing: let her but live entirely to her own fancy, and she'll never say a word to you from morning to night.
Gripe. Oons, let her but stay at home, and she shall do what she will: in reason, that is.
Flip. D'ye hear that, Madam? nay, now I must be on master's side; you see how he loves you, he desires only your company, pray give him that satisfaction, or I must pronounce against you.
Clar. Well, I agree. Thou know'st I don't love to grieve him: let him be always in good humour, and I'll be always at home.
Flip. Look you there, Sir, what would you have more?
Gripe. Well, let her keep her word, and I'll have done quarrelling.
Clar. I must not, however, so far lose the merit of my consent, as to let you think I'm weary of going abroad, my dear: what I do is purely to oblige you; which, that I may be able to perform, without a relapse, I'll invent what ways I can to make my prison supportable to me.
Flip. Her prison! pretty bird! her prison! do'nt that word melt you, Sir?
Gripe. I must confess I did not expect to find her so reasonable.