Alith. What d'ye mean, impertinent?
Lucy. Liberty is a great pleasure, madam.
Alith. I say, loss of her honour, her quiet, nay, her life sometimes; and what's as bad almost, the loss of this town; that is, she is sent into the country, which is the last ill-usage of a husband to a wife, I think.
Lucy. [Aside.] O, does the wind lie there?—[Aloud.] Then of necessity, madam, you think a man must carry his wife into the country, if he be wise. The country is as terrible, I find, to our young English ladies, as a monastery to those abroad; and on my virginity, I think they would rather marry a London jailer, than a high sheriff of a county, since neither can stir from his employment. Formerly women of wit married fools for a great estate, a fine seat, or the like; but now 'tis for a pretty seat only in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, St. James's-Fields, or the Pall-Mall.
Enter Sparkish, and Harcourt, dressed like a Parson.
Spark. Madam, your humble servant, a happy day to you, and to us all.
Har. Amen.
Alith. Who have we here?
Spark. My chaplain, faith—O madam, poor Harcourt remembers his humble service to you; and, in obedience to your last commands, refrains coming into your sight.
Alith. Is not that he?