Sis. My witty servant!
Lady. Most pretious Alamode, Monsir Device!
De. I blesse my lipps with your white handes.
Lady. You come to take your leave as knowing by instinct wee have but halfe an hour to stay.
Sis. Wee are for the Countrey as fast as your Flanders mares will trott, sir.
De. That's a Solecisme till the Court remove;—are you afraid of the small pox?
Sis. The less the better for a gentlewoman.
De. And the greater more genty for a Cavallier. By this glove (a pretty embroidery is't not?) you must not deprive us so soone of your sweet presence. Why, there's a Ball to night in the Strand and tomorrow I had a purpose to waite upon you to the pictures; I ha' bespoke regalias[231] there, too. There will be a new play shortly, a pretty Comedy written by a profest Scholler: he scornes to take money[232] for his witt, as the Poetts doe.
Lady. He is Charitable to the Actors.
Sis. It may be their repentance enough to play it.