Mrs. Pinch. You are my own dear bud, and I know you. I hate a stranger.
Pinch. Ay, my dear, you must love me only; and not be like the naughty town-women, who only hate their husbands, and love every man else; love plays, visits, fine coaches, fine clothes, fiddles, balls, treats, and so lead a wicked town-life.
Mrs. Pinch. Nay, if to enjoy all these things be a town-life, London is not so bad a place, dear.
Pinch. How! if you love me, you must hate London.
Alith. The fool has forbid me discovering to her the pleasures of the town, and he is now setting her agog upon them himself. [Aside.
Mrs. Pinch. But, husband, do the town-women love the playermen too?
Pinch. Yes, I warrant you.
Mrs. Pinch. Ay, I warrant you.
Pinch. Why, you do not, I hope?