Horn. Already, I say. Last night I was drunk with half-a-dozen of your civil persons, as you call 'em, and people of honour, and so was made free of their society and dressing-rooms for ever hereafter; and am already come to the privileges of sleeping upon their pallets, warming smocks, tying shoes and garters, and the like, doctor, already, already, doctor.
Quack. You have made good use of your time, sir.
Horn. I tell thee, I am now no more interruption to 'em, when they sing, or talk bawdy, than a little squab French page who speaks no English.
Quack. But do civil persons and women of honour drink, and sing bawdy songs?
Horn. O, amongst friends, amongst friends. For your bigots in honour are just like those in religion; they fear the eye of the world more than the eye of Heaven; and think there is no virtue, but railing at vice, and no sin, but giving scandal. They rail at a poor, little, kept player, and keep themselves some young, modest pulpit comedian to be privy to their sins in their closets, not to tell 'em of them in their chapels.
Quack. Nay, the truth on't is, priests, amongst the women now, have quite got the better of us lay-confessors, physicians.
Horn. And they are rather their patients; but—
Enter Lady Fidget, looking about her.
Now we talk of women of honour, here comes one. Step behind the screen there, and but observe, if I have not particular privileges with the women of reputation already, doctor, already. [Quack retires.
Lady Fid. Well, Horner, am not I a woman of honour? you see, I'm as good as my word.