AMANDA. Why, what would you do? BERINTHIA. I’d cure myself. AMANDA. How? BERINTHIA. Care as little for my husband as he did for me. Look you, Amanda, you may build castles in the air, and fume, and fret, and grow thin, and lean, and pale, and ugly, if you please; but I tell you, no man worth having is true to his wife, or ever was, or ever will be so. AMANDA. Do you then really think he’s false to me? for I did not suspect him. BERINTHIA. Think so? I am sure of it. AMANDA. You are sure on’t? BERINTHIA. Positively—he fell in love at the play. AMANDA. Right—the very same. But who could have told you this? BERINTHIA. Um!—Oh, Townly! I suppose your husband has made him his confidant. AMANDA. O base Loveless! And what did Townly say on’t? BERINTHIA. [_Aside_.] So, so! why should she ask that?—[_Aloud_.] Say! why he abused Loveless extremely, and said all the tender things of you in the world. AMANDA. Did he?—Oh! my heart!—I’m very ill—dear Berinthia, don’t leave me a moment. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE III.—_Outside of_ SIR TUNRELLY CLUMSY’S _House_. _Enter_ TOM FASHION _and_ LORY. TOM FASHION. So here’s our inheritance, Lory, if we can but get into possession. But methinks the seat of our family looks like Noah’s ark, as if the chief part on’t were designed for the fowls of the air, and the beasts of the field. LORY. Pray, sir, don’t let your head run upon the orders of building here: get but the heiress, let the devil take the house. TOM FASHION. Get but the house, let the devil take the heiress! I say.—But come, we have no time to squander; knock at the door.—[LORY _knocks two or three times at the gate._] What the devil! have they got no ears in this house?—Knock harder. LORY. Egad, sir, this will prove some enchanted castle; we shall have the giant come out by-and-by, with his club, and beat our brains out. [_Knocks again._] TOM FASHION. Hush, they come. SERVANT. [_Within._ ] Who is there? LORY. Open the door and see: is that your country breeding? SERVANT. Ay, but two words to that bargain.—Tummus, is the blunderbuss primed? TOM FASHION. Ouns! give ’em good words, Lory,—or we shall be shot here a fortune catching. LORY. Egad, sir, I think you’re in the right on’t.—Ho! Mr. What-d’ye-call-’um, will you please to let us in? or are we to be left to grow like willows by your moat side? SERVANT _appears at the window with a blunderbuss._ SERVANT. Well naw, what’s ya’re business? TOM FASHION. Nothing, sir, but to wait upon Sir Tunbelly, with your leave. SERVANT. To weat upon Sir Tunbelly! why, you’ll find that’s just as Sir Tunbelly pleases. TOM FASHION. But will you do me the favour, sir, to know whether Sir Tunbelly pleases or not? SERVANT. Why, look you, d’ye see, with good words much may be done. Ralph, go thy ways, and ask Sir Tunbelly if he pleases to be waited upon—and dost hear, call to nurse, that she may lock up Miss Hoyden before the gates open. TOM FASHION. D’ye hear, that, Lory?