Miran. Go, go, dear Gardee; I hope I shall recover it.
Sir Fran. B'ye, by'e, Dear'e. Ah, Mischief, how you look now! B'ye, b'ye.
(Exit.
Miran. Scentwell, see him in the Coach, and bring me word.
Scentw. Yes, Madam.
Miran. So, Sir, you have done your Friend a signal piece of Service, I suppose.
Marpl. Why look you, Madam! if I have committed a fault, thank your self; no Man is more Serviceable when I am let into a Secret, nor none more Unlucky at finding it out. Who cou'd divine your Meaning, when you talk'd of a Blunderbuss, who thought of a Rendevous? and when you talk'd of a Monkey, who the Devil dreamt of Sir George?
Miran. A sign you converse but little with our Sex, when you can't reconcile Contradictions.
Enter Scentwell.
Scentw. He's gone, Madam, as fast as the Coach, and Six can carry him.