Y. Book. No, no, not I; I don't know you. Your mother was not Alderman Sterling's daughter; your father, Mr. Philips, of Gray's Inn, who had an estate and never practised? You had not a brother killed at Landen? Your sister Diana is not dead? nor you are not co-heiress with Miss Molly? No, madam, I don't know you; no, nor love you.
Pen. I wish I had taken her advice in going; he means her all this while [Aside.]—Pshaw, this is downright fooling. Let's go, my dear; leave him to the woods, as you say—I wish 'twas full of bears. [Aside.
Vict. No; now I'll stay to plague him.
Pen. No, you shan't stay.—Sir, we have given ourselves the diversion to see you, and confront you in your falsehoods; in which you have entangled yourself to that degree, you know not even the woman you pretend to; and therefore, sir, I so far despise you, that if you should come after me with your fiddles, I'll have a porter—ready to let you in. [Aside.
Vict. I don't know how to threaten a gentleman in that manner, but I'm sure I shall never entertain any man that has disobliged my friend, while my name's Victoria! [Exeunt arm in arm.
Lat. Master, methinks these ladies don't understand wit. They were very rough with you.
Y. Book. Ay, they were somewhat dull. But really Victoria discovered herself at her going, methinks, agreeably enough.
Lat. I believe they are irrecoverably lost. Pox on't, when I gave you so many signs, too.
Y. Book. Well, hang thinking. Let's to the tavern, and in every glass name a new beauty, till I either forget, or am inspired with some new project to attain her.