SHARP. Bellmour will unriddle to you. [Heartwell goes to Bellmour.]
SIR JO. Pray, madam, who are you? For I find you and I are like to be better acquainted.
SYLV. The worst of me is, that I am your wife—
SHARP. Come, Sir Joseph, your fortune is not so bad as you fear. A fine lady, and a lady of very good quality.
SIR JO. Thanks to my knighthood, she’s a lady—
VAIN. That deserves a fool with a better title. Pray use her as my relation, or you shall hear on’t.
BLUFF. What, are you a woman of quality too, spouse?
SET. And my relation; pray let her be respected accordingly. Well, honest Lucy, fare thee well. I think, you and I have been play-fellows off and on, any time this seven years.
LUCY. Hold your prating. I’m thinking what vocation I shall follow while my spouse is planting laurels in the wars.
BLUFF. No more wars, spouse, no more wars. While I plant laurels for my head abroad, I may find the branches sprout at home.