BRISK. How? how, my lord? what, affront my wit! Let me perish, do I never say anything worthy to be laughed at?
LORD FROTH. Oh, foy, don’t misapprehend me; I don’t say so, for I often smile at your conceptions. But there is nothing more unbecoming a man of quality than to laugh; ’tis such a vulgar expression of the passion; everybody can laugh. Then especially to laugh at the jest of an inferior person, or when anybody else of the same quality does not laugh with one—ridiculous! To be pleased with what pleases the crowd! Now when I laugh, I always laugh alone.
BRISK. I suppose that’s because you laugh at your own jests, i’gad, ha, ha, ha.
LORD FROTH. He, he, I swear though, your raillery provokes me to a smile.
BRISK. Ay, my lord, it’s a sign I hit you in the teeth, if you show ’em.
LORD FROTH. He, he, he, I swear that’s so very pretty, I can’t forbear.
CARE. I find a quibble bears more sway in your lordship’s face than a jest.
LORD TOUCH. Sir Paul, if you please we’ll retire to the ladies, and drink a dish of tea to settle our heads.
SIR PAUL. With all my heart. Mr. Brisk, you’ll come to us, or call me when you joke; I’ll be ready to laugh incontinently.