Beau. To use respects and ceremonies to the milchcow his wife, and praise her pretty children, though they stink of their mother, and are uglier than the issue of a baboon; yet all this must be endured.
Cour. Must it, Beaugard?
Beau. And, since 'tis so, let's think of a bottle.
Cour. With all my heart, for railing and drinking do much better together than by themselves; a private room, a trusty friend or two, good wine and bold truths, are my happiness. But where's our dear friend and intimate, Sir Jolly, this evening?
Beau. To deal like a friend, Courtine, I parted with him but just now; he's gone to contrive me a meeting, if possible, this night, with the woman my soul is most fond of. I was this evening just entering upon the palace of all joy, when I met with so damnable a disappointment—in short, that plague to all well-meaning women, the husband, came unseasonably, and forced a poor lover to his heels, that was fairly making his progress another way, Courtine: the story thou shalt hear more at large hereafter.
Cour. A plague on him, why didst thou not murder the presumptuous cuckold? saucy intruding clown, to dare to disturb a gentleman's privacies! I would have beaten him into sense of his transgression, enjoyed his wife before his face, and ha' taught the dog his duty.
Beau. Look you, Courtine, you think you are dealing with the landlord of your winter-quarters in Alsatia now. Friend, friend, there is a difference between a free-born English cuckold and a sneaking wittol of a conquered province.
Cour. Oh, by all means, there ought to be a difference observed between your arbitrary whoring, and your limited fornication.
Beau. And but reason: for, though we may make bold with another man's wife in a friendly way, yet nothing upon compulsion, dear heart.
Cour. And now Sir Jolly, I hope, is to be the instrument of some immortal plot; some contrivance for the good of thy body, and the old fellow's soul, Beaugard: for all cuckolds go to Heaven, that's most certain.