Mrs. Cros. Marry, and 'tis the greatest secret far. Tell a miser he is rich, and a woman she is old,—you will get no money of him, not kindness of her. To tell me I was nine-and-thirty—(I say no more) 'twas un-neighbourly done of you, mistress.
Mrs. Joyn. My memory confesses my age, it seems, as much as my face; for I thought—
Mrs. Cros. Pray talk nor think no more of any one's age; but say what brought you hither so early.
Mrs. Joyn. How does my sweet god-daughter, poor wretch?
Mrs. Cros. Well, very well.
Mrs. Joyn. Ah, sweet creature! Alas! alas!—I am sorry for her.
Mrs. Cros. Why, what has she done to deserve your sorrow, or my reprehension?
Enter Lucy, and stands unseen at the door.
Lucy. What, are they talking of me? [Aside.
Mrs. Joyn. In short, she was seen going into the meeting-house of the wicked, otherwise called the playhouse, hand in hand with that vile fellow Dapperwit.