WIT. Very pretty. Why, you make no more of making of lovers, madam, than of making so many card-matches. MILLA. One no more owes one’s beauty to a lover than one’s wit to an echo. They can but reflect what we look and say: vain empty things if we are silent or unseen, and want a being. MIRA. Yet, to those two vain empty things, you owe two the greatest pleasures of your life. MILLA. How so? MIRA. To your lover you owe the pleasure of hearing yourselves praised, and to an echo the pleasure of hearing yourselves talk. WIT. But I know a lady that loves talking so incessantly, she won’t give an echo fair play; she has that everlasting rotation of tongue that an echo must wait till she dies before it can catch her last words. MILLA. Oh, fiction; Fainall, let us leave these men. MIRA. Draw off Witwoud. [_Aside to_ MRS. FAINALL.] MRS. FAIN. Immediately; I have a word or two for Mr. Witwoud. SCENE VI. MRS. MILLAMANT, MIRABELL, MINCING. MIRA. I would beg a little private audience too. You had the tyranny to deny me last night, though you knew I came to impart a secret to you that concerned my love. MILLA. You saw I was engaged. MIRA. Unkind! You had the leisure to entertain a herd of fools: things who visit you from their excessive idleness, bestowing on your easiness that time which is the incumbrance of their lives. How can you find delight in such society? It is impossible they should admire you; they are not capable; or, if they were, it should be to you as a mortification: for, sure, to please a fool is some degree of folly. MILLA. I please myself.—Besides, sometimes to converse with fools is for my health. MIRA. Your health! Is there a worse disease than the conversation of fools? MILLA. Yes, the vapours; fools are physic for it, next to assafoetida. MIRA. You are not in a course of fools? MILLA. Mirabell, if you persist in this offensive freedom you’ll displease me. I think I must resolve after all not to have you:—we shan’t agree. MIRA. Not in our physic, it may be. MILLA. And yet our distemper in all likelihood will be the same; for we shall be sick of one another. I shan’t endure to be reprimanded nor instructed; ’tis so dull to act always by advice, and so tedious to be told of one’s faults, I can’t bear it. Well, I won’t have you, Mirabell—I’m resolved—I think—you may go—ha, ha, ha! What would you give that you could help loving me? MIRA. I would give something that you did not know I could not help it. MILLA. Come, don’t look grave then. Well, what do you say to me? MIRA. I say that a man may as soon make a friend by his wit, or a fortune by his honesty, as win a woman with plain-dealing and sincerity. MILLA. Sententious Mirabell! Prithee don’t look with that violent and inflexible wise face, like Solomon at the dividing of the child in an old tapestry hanging! MIRA. You are merry, madam, but I would persuade you for a moment to be serious.