CARE. Hum, ay, what is’t?
BRISK. O mon cœur! What is’t! Nay, gad, I’ll punish you for want of apprehension. The deuce take me if I tell you.
MEL. No, no, hang him, he has no taste. But, dear Brisk, excuse me, I have a little business.
CARE. Prithee get thee gone; thou seest we are serious.
MEL. We’ll come immediately, if you’ll but go in and keep up good humour and sense in the company. Prithee do, they’ll fall asleep else.
BRISK. I’gad, so they will. Well, I will, I will; gad, you shall command me from the Zenith to the Nadir. But the deuce take me if I say a good thing till you come. But prithee, dear rogue, make haste, prithee make haste, I shall burst else. And yonder your uncle, my Lord Touchwood, swears he’ll disinherit you, and Sir Paul Plyant threatens to disclaim you for a son-in-law, and my Lord Froth won’t dance at your wedding to-morrow; nor, the deuce take me, I won’t write your Epithalamium—and see what a condition you’re like to be brought to.
MEL. Well, I’ll speak but three words, and follow you.
BRISK. Enough, enough. Careless, bring your apprehension along with you.
SCENE III.
Mellefont, Careless.