Spark. Why, d'ye think I'll seem to be jealous, like a country bumpkin?
Pinch. No, rather be a cuckold, like a credulous cit.
Har. Madam, you would not have been so little generous as to have told him.
Alith. Yes, since you could be so little generous as to wrong him.
Har. Wrong him! no man can do't, he's beneath an injury: a bubble, a coward, a senseless idiot, a wretch so contemptible to all the world but you, that—
Alith. Hold, do not rail at him, for since he is like to be my husband, I am resolved to like him: nay, I think I am obliged to tell him you are not his friend.—Master Sparkish, Master Sparkish!
Spark. What, what?—[To Harcourt.] Now, dear rogue, has not she wit?
Har. Not so much as I thought, and hoped she had. [Speaks surlily.
Alith. Mr. Sparkish, do you bring people to rail at you?
Har. Madam—