_Sir John._ A Pox o' your Petticoat! Here's such a Prating, a Man can't digest his own Thoughts for you. _Lady Brute._ Don't answer him. [_Aside._] Well, what do you advise me? _Bel._ Why, really, I would not alter it at all. Methinks 'tis very pretty as it is. _Lady Brute._ Ay, that's, true: But you know one grows weary of the prettiest things in the World, when one has had 'em long. _Sir John._ Yes, I have taught her that. _Bel._ Shall we provoke him a little? _Lady Brute._ With all my Heart. _Belinda_, don't you long to be marry'd? _Bel._ Why, there are some things in it I could like well enough. _Lady Brute._ What do you think you shou'd dislike? _Bel._ My Husband, a hundred to one else. _Lady Brute._ O ye wicked Wretch! Sure you don't speak as you think? _Bel._ Yes, I do: especially if he smoak'd Tobacco. [_He looks earnestly at 'em._ _Lady Brute._ Why, that many times takes off worse Smells. _Bel._ Then he must smell very ill indeed. _Lady Brute._ So some Men will, to keep their Wives from coming near 'em. _Bel._ Then those Wives shou'd cuckold 'em at a distance. _He rises in a Fury, throws his Pipe at 'em, and drives 'em out. As they run off, ~Constant~ and ~Heartfree~ enter. Lady ~Brute~ runs against ~Constant~._ _Sir John._. 'Oons, get you gone up Stairs, you confederating Strumpets you, o I'll cuckold you, with a Vengeance! _Lady Brute._ O Lord, he'll beat us, he'll beat us. Dear, dear Mr. _Constant_, save us! [_Exeunt._ _Sir John._ I'll cuckold you, with a Pox. _Const._ Heav'n! Sir _John_, what's the matter? _Sir John._ Sure, if Women had been ready created, the Devil, instead of being kick'd down into Hell, had been marry'd. _Heart._ Why, what new Plague have you found now? _Sir John._ Why, these two Gentlewomen did but hear me say, I expected you here this Afternoon; upon which they presently resolv'd to take up the Room, o' purpose to plague me and my Friends. _Const._ Was that all? Why, we shou'd have been glad of their Company. _Sir John._ Then I should have been weary of yours; for I can't relish both together. They found fault with my smoaking Tobacco, too; and said Men stunk. But I have a good mind--to say something. _Const._ No, nothing against the Ladies, pray. _Sir John._ Split the Ladies! Come, will you sit down? Give us some Wine, Fellow: You won't smoak? _Const._. No; nor drink, neither, at this time--I must ask your Pardon. _Sir John._ What, this Mistress of yours runs in your Head! I'll warrant it's some such squeamish Minx as my Wife, that's grown so dainty of late, she finds fault even with a dirty Shirt. _Heart._ That a Woman may do, and not be very dainty, neither. _Sir John._ Pox o' the Women! let's drink. Come, you shall take one Glass, tho' I send for a Box of Lozenges to sweeten your Mouth after it.