Lady Teazle.
Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you’ve told me that a hundred times. This habit of repeating yourself is most distressing. ’Tis a sure sign of old age.
[In a passion.] Oons, Madam, will you never be tired of flinging my age in my face?
Lady Teazle.
Lud, Sir Peter, ’tis you that fling it in mine. How often have you said to me [beating time] “when an old bachelor marries a young wife——”
Sir Peter.
And if I have, Lady Teazle, you needn’t repeat it after me. But you live only to plague me. And yet ’twas but six months ago you vowed never to cross me again. Yes, Madam, six months ago, when I found you concealed behind a screen in Mr. Surface’s library, you promised that if I would forgive you your future conduct should prove the sincerity of your repentance. I forgave you, Madam, and this is my reward!
Lady Teazle.
And am I to blame, Sir Peter, for your ill-humours? Must I always be making concessions? To please you, I have given up all routs and assemblies, attend no balls nor quadrilles, talk no scandal, never ogle nor flirt. I go no more to my Lady Sneerwell’s, though I vow hers was a most delightful house to visit. Such fashion and elegance. Such wit! Such delicate malice!