Spark. Poor Frank! no gad, 'tis only his kindness to me.
Pinch. Great kindness to you indeed! Insensible fop, let a man make love to his wife to his face! [Aside.
Spark. Come, dear Frank, for all my wife there, that shall be, thou shalt enjoy me sometimes, dear rogue. By my honour, we men of wit condole for our deceased brother in marriage, as much as for one dead in earnest: I think that was prettily said of me, ha, Harcourt?—But come, Frank, be not melancholy for me.
Har. No, I assure you, I am not melancholy for you.
Spark. Prithee, Frank, dost think my wife that shall be there, a fine person?
Har. I could gaze upon her till I became as blind as you are.
Spark. How as I am? how?
Har. Because you are a lover, and true lovers are blind, stock blind.
Spark. True, true; but by the world she has wit too, as well as beauty: go, go with her into a corner, and try if she has wit; talk to her anything, she's bashful before me.
Har. Indeed if a woman wants wit in a corner, she has it nowhere.