ANG. No, Sir Sampson, I have no quarrel upon my hands. I have more occasion for your conduct than your courage at this time. To tell you the truth, I’m weary of living single and want a husband. SIR SAMP. Odsbud, and ’tis pity you should. Odd, would she would like me, then I should hamper my young rogues. Odd, would she would; faith and troth she’s devilish handsome. [_Aside_.] Madam, you deserve a good husband, and ’twere pity you should be thrown away upon any of these young idle rogues about the town. Odd, there’s ne’er a young fellow worth hanging—that is a very young fellow. Pize on ’em, they never think beforehand of anything; and if they commit matrimony, ’tis as they commit murder, out of a frolic, and are ready to hang themselves, or to be hanged by the law, the next morning. Odso, have a care, madam. ANG. Therefore I ask your advice, Sir Sampson. I have fortune enough to make any man easy that I can like: if there were such a thing as a young agreeable man, with a reasonable stock of good nature and sense—for I would neither have an absolute wit nor a fool. SIR SAMP. Odd, you are hard to please, madam: to find a young fellow that is neither a wit in his own eye, nor a fool in the eye of the world, is a very hard task. But, faith and troth, you speak very discreetly; for I hate both a wit and a fool. ANG. She that marries a fool, Sir Sampson, forfeits the reputation of her honesty or understanding; and she that marries a very witty man is a slave to the severity and insolent conduct of her husband. I should like a man of wit for a lover, because I would have such an one in my power; but I would no more be his wife than his enemy. For his malice is not a more terrible consequence of his aversion than his jealousy is of his love. SIR SAMP. None of old Foresight’s sibyls ever uttered such a truth. Odsbud, you have won my heart; I hate a wit: I had a son that was spoiled among ’em, a good hopeful lad, till he learned to be a wit; and might have risen in the state. But, a pox on’t, his wit run him out of his money, and now his poverty has run him out of his wits. ANG. Sir Sampson, as your friend, I must tell you you are very much abused in that matter: he’s no more mad than you are. SIR SAMP. How, madam! Would I could prove it. ANG. I can tell you how that may be done. But it is a thing that would make me appear to be too much concerned in your affairs. SIR SAMP. Odsbud, I believe she likes me. [_Aside_.] Ah, madam, all my affairs are scarce worthy to be laid at your feet; and I wish, madam, they were in a better posture, that I might make a more becoming offer to a lady of your incomparable beauty and merit. If I had Peru in one hand, and Mexico in t’other, and the Eastern Empire under my feet, it would make me only a more glorious victim to be offered at the shrine of your beauty. ANG. Bless me, Sir Sampson, what’s the matter?