_Wor._ I'm sure you know best how to manage the Battery. _Ber._ What think you of springing a Mine? I have a Thought just now come into my Head, how to blow her up at once. _Wor._ That would be a Thought, indeed! _Ber._----Faith, I'll do't, and thus the Execution of it shall be. We are all invited to my Lord _Foppington_'s to-night to Supper, he's come to Town with his Bride, and maketh a Ball, with an Entertainment of Musick. Now you must know, my Undoer here, _Loveless_, says he must needs meet me about some private Business (I don't know what 'tis) before we go to the Company. To which end he has told his Wife one Lye, and I have told her another. But to make her amends, I'll go immediately, and tell her a solemn Truth. _Wor._ What's that? _Ber._ Why, I'll tell her, that to my certain Knowledge her Husband has a Rendezvous with his Mistress this Afternoon; and that if she'll give me her Word, she will be satisfy'd with the Discovery, without making any violent Inquiry after the Woman, I'll direct her to a Place, where she shall see them meet.--Now, Friend, this I fancy may help you to a critical Minute. For home she must go again to dress. You, with your good-breeding, come to wait upon us to the Ball, find her all alone, her Spirit enflam'd against her Husband for his Treason, and her Flesh in a Heat from some Contemplations upon the Treachery, her Blood on a Fire, her Conscience in ice; a Lover to draw, and the Devil to drive----Ah, poor _Amanda_! _Wor._ [_Kneeling._] Thou Angel of Light, let me fall down and adore thee! _Ber._ Thou Minister of Darkness, get up again, for I hate to see the Devil at his Devotions. _Wor._ Well, my incomparable _Berinthia_----How shall I requite you---- _Ber._ O ne'er trouble yourself about that: Virtue is its own Reward: There's a Pleasure in doing good, which sufficiently pays itself. Adieu. _Wor._ Farewel, thou best of Women. [_Exeunt several ways._ _Enter ~Amanda~, meeting ~Berinthia~._ _Aman._ Who was that went from you? _Ber._ A Friend of yours. _Aman._ What does he want? _Ber._ Something you might spare him, and be ne'er the poorer. _Aman._ I can spare him nothing but my Friendship; my Love already's all dispos'd of: Tho', I confess, to one ungrateful to my Bounty. _Ber._ Why there's the Mystery! You have been so bountiful, you have cloy'd him. Fond Wives do by their Husbands, as barren Wives do by their Lap-Dogs; cram them with Sweetmeats till they spoil their Stomachs. _Aman._ Alas! Had you but seen how passionately fond he has been since our last Reconciliation, you wou'd have thought it were impossible he ever should have breath'd an Hour without me. _Ber._ Ay but there you thought wrong again, _Amanda_; you shou'd consider, that in Matters of Love Men's Eyes are always bigger than their Bellies. They have violent Appetites, 'tis true, but they have soon din'd.