Y. Book. I can't conceive how one of those sneaking academics could personate such a character; for we, bred in camps, have a behaviour that shows we are used to act before crowds.
Pen. 'Tis certainly so; nay, he has been confronted with it, as plainly as I speak to you, and yet not blushed for it, but carried it as if he knew not the man——
Y. Book. That may be; 'tis want of knowing themselves makes those coxcombs so confident.
Pen. The faithless! shameless! Well, then, to see, if possible, such a one may be brought to that sense, I tell you, this worthy hero two days ago was in hanging-sleeves at Oxford, and is called Mr. Bookwit. Ha! ha!
Y. Book. Well, was it not well enough carried? Pooh, I knew you well enough, and you knew me, before you writ to me for Mr. Bookwit's son. But I fell into that way of talking purely to divert you. I knew you a woman of wit and spirit, and that acting that part would at least show I had fire in me, and wished myself what I would be half an age to serve and please you—suffer in camps all the vicissitudes of burning heats and sharp afflicting colds—
Vict. Look you, sir, I shall tell Mrs. Matilda Newtown, your spouse at Oxford, what you are saying to another lady.
Pen. Prithee cousin, never give yourself the trouble to meddle in such a work; one hardly knows how to speak it to a gentleman, but don't touch the affairs of so impudent a liar.
Y. Book. Ha! ha! ha!—Why, madam, have they told you of the marriage too? Well, I was hard put to it there. I had like to have been gravelled, faith. You were more beholden to me for that than anything. Had it not been for that, they had married me to Mrs. Penelope, old Getwel's granddaughter, the great fortune; but I refused her for you—who are a greater. [Aside.
Lat. Sir! sir! pray sir, one word——
Pen. and Vict. Stand off, sirrah.