PET. Well, well, I come. ’Sbud, a man had as good be a professed midwife as a professed whoremaster, at this rate; to be knocked up and raised at all hours, and in all places. Pox on ’em, I won’t come. D’ye hear, tell ’em I won’t come. Let ’em snivel and cry their hearts out. FAIN. You are very cruel, Petulant. PET. All’s one, let it pass. I have a humour to be cruel. MIRA. I hope they are not persons of condition that you use at this rate. PET. Condition? Condition’s a dried fig, if I am not in humour. By this hand, if they were your—a—a—your what-d’ee-call-’ems themselves, they must wait or rub off, if I want appetite. MIRA. What-d’ee-call-’ems! What are they, Witwoud? WIT. Empresses, my dear. By your what-d’ee-call-’ems he means Sultana Queens. PET. Ay, Roxolanas. MIRA. Cry you mercy. FAIN. Witwoud says they are— PET. What does he say th’are? WIT. I? Fine ladies, I say. PET. Pass on, Witwoud. Harkee, by this light, his relations—two co-heiresses his cousins, and an old aunt, who loves cater-wauling better than a conventicle. WIT. Ha, ha, ha! I had a mind to see how the rogue would come off. Ha, ha, ha! Gad, I can’t be angry with him, if he had said they were my mother and my sisters. MIRA. No? WIT. No; the rogue’s wit and readiness of invention charm me, dear Petulant. BET. They are gone, sir, in great anger. PET. Enough, let ’em trundle. Anger helps complexion, saves paint. FAIN. This continence is all dissembled; this is in order to have something to brag of the next time he makes court to Millamant, and swear he has abandoned the whole sex for her sake. MIRA. Have you not left off your impudent pretensions there yet? I shall cut your throat, sometime or other, Petulant, about that business. PET. Ay, ay, let that pass. There are other throats to be cut. MIRA. Meaning mine, sir? PET. Not I—I mean nobody—I know nothing. But there are uncles and nephews in the world—and they may be rivals. What then? All’s one for that. MIRA. How? Harkee, Petulant, come hither. Explain, or I shall call your interpreter. PET. Explain? I know nothing. Why, you have an uncle, have you not, lately come to town, and lodges by my Lady Wishfort’s? MIRA. True. PET. Why, that’s enough. You and he are not friends; and if he should marry and have a child, yon may be disinherited, ha! MIRA. Where hast thou stumbled upon all this truth? PET. All’s one for that; why, then, say I know something. MIRA. Come, thou art an honest fellow, Petulant, and shalt make love to my mistress, thou shalt, faith. What hast thou heard of my uncle? PET. I? Nothing, I. If throats are to be cut, let swords clash. Snug’s the word; I shrug and am silent.