WIT. Do, wrap thyself up like a woodlouse, and dream revenge. And, hear me, if thou canst learn to write by to-morrow morning, pen me a challenge. I’ll carry it for thee.
PET. Carry your mistress’s monkey a spider; go flea dogs and read romances. I’ll go to bed to my maid.
MRS. FAIN. He’s horridly drunk—how came you all in this pickle?
WIT. A plot, a plot, to get rid of the knight—your husband’s advice; but he sneaked off.
SCENE X.
Sir Wilfull, drunk, Lady Wishfort, Witwoud, Mrs. Millamant, Mrs. Fainall.
LADY. Out upon’t, out upon’t, at years of discretion, and comport yourself at this rantipole rate!
SIR WIL. No offence, aunt.
LADY. Offence? As I’m a person, I’m ashamed of you. Fogh! How you stink of wine! D’ye think my niece will ever endure such a Borachio? You’re an absolute Borachio.
SIR WIL. Borachio?