Sir Jasp. [Aside.] Lord, how churlish he is to women!—[Aloud.] Nay, prithee don't disappoint 'em; they'll think 'tis my fault: prithee don't. I'll send in the banquet and the fiddles. But make no noise on't; for the poor virtuous rogues would not have it known, for the world, that they go a-masquerading; and they would come to no man's ball but yours.
Horn. Well, well—get you gone; and tell 'em, if they come, 'twill be at the peril of their honour and yours.
Sir Jasp. He! he! he!—we'll trust you for that: farewell. [Exit.
Horn.
Doctor, anon you too shall be my guest,
But now I'm going to a private feast.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.—The Piazza of Covent Garden.
Enter Sparkish with a letter in his hand, Pinchwife following.
Spark. But who would have thought a woman could have been false to me? By the world, I could not have thought it.
Pinch. You were for giving and taking liberty: she has taken it only, sir, now you find in that letter. You are a frank person, and so is she, you see there.