Sylv. What need I take the trouble to go so far a-fowling, when there's game enough at our own doors?
Cour. What, game for your net, fair lady?
Sylv. Yes, or any woman's net else, that will spread it.
Cour. To show you how despicably I think of the business, I will here leave you presently, though I lose the pleasure of railing at you.
Sylv. Do so, I would advise you; your raillery betrays your wit, as bad as your clumsy civility does your breeding.
Cour. Adieu!
Sylv. Farewell!
Cour. Why do not you go about your business?
Sylv. Because I would be sure to be rid of you first, that you might not dog me.
Cour. Were it but possible that you could answer me one question truly, and then I should be satisfied.