Horn. Well then, dear Jack, why so unkind, so grum, so strange to me? Come, prithee kiss me, dear rogue: gad I was always, I say, and am still as much thy servant as—
Pinch. As I am yours, sir. What, you would send a kiss to my wife, is that it?
Horn. So, there 'tis—a man can't show his friendship to a married man, but presently he talks of his wife to you. Prithee, let thy wife alone, and let thee and I be all one, as we were wont. What, thou art as shy of my kindness, as a Lombard-street alderman of a courtier's civility at Locket's![80]
Pinch. But you are over-kind to me, as kind as if I were your cuckold already; yet I must confess you ought to be kind and civil to me, since I am so kind, so civil to you, as to bring you this: look you there, sir. [Delivers him a letter.
Horn. What is't?
Pinch. Only a love-letter, sir.
Horn. From whom?—how! this is from your wife—hum—and hum—[Reads.
Pinch. Even from my wife, sir: am I not wondrous kind and civil to you now too?—[Aside.] But you'll not think her so.
Horn. Ha! is this a trick of his or hers? [Aside.