Brass. She is, poor lady, in a most unfortunate situation of affairs. But I have said too much.
Gripe. No, no, 'tis very sad, but let's hear it.
Brass. Sir, she charg'd me on my life never to mention it to you, of all men living.
Gripe. Why, who should'st thou tell it to, but to the best of her friends?
Brass. Ay, why there's it now, it's going just as I fancy'd. Now will I be hang'd if you are not enough in love to be engaging in this matter. But I must tell you, Sir, that as much concern as I have for that most excellent, beautiful, agreeable, distress'd, unfortunate lady, I'm too much your friend and servant, ever to let it be said, 'twas the means of your being ruin'd for a woman——by letting you know she esteem'd you more than any other man upon earth.
Gripe. Ruin'd! what dost thou mean?
Brass. Mean! Why! I mean that women always ruin those that love 'em, that's the rule.
Gripe. The rule!
Brass. Yes, the rule; why wou'd you have them ruin those that don't? How shall they bring that about?