[Takes her up, embracing her.
Cler. Sen. Then kneel, and weep no more, my fairest—my reconciled! Be so in a moment, for know I cannot (without wringing my own heart) give you the least compunction. Be in humour. It shall be your own fault if ever there's a serious word more on this subject.
Mrs. Cler. I must correct every idea that rises in my mind, and learn every gesture of my body anew—I detest the thing I was.
Cler. Sen. No, no; you must not do so. Our joy and grief, honour and reproach, are the same; you must slide out of your foppery by degrees, so that it may appear your own act.
Mrs. Cler. But this wench!
Cler. Sen. She is already out of your way; you shall see the catastrophe of her fate yourself. But still keep up the fine lady till we go out of town; you may return to it with as decent airs as you please.—And now I have shown you your error, I'm in so good humour as to repeat you a couplet on the occasion—
They only who gain minds, true laurels wear:
'Tis less to conquer, than convince, the fair.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Tipkin's House.
Enter Pounce with papers; a table, chairs, pen, ink, and paper.