FOIB. I told her, sir, because I did not know that you might find an opportunity; she had so much company last night. MIRA. Your diligence will merit more. In the meantime—[_gives money_] FOIB. O dear sir, your humble servant. WAIT. Spouse— MIRA. Stand off, sir, not a penny. Go on and prosper, Foible. The lease shall be made good and the farm stocked, if we succeed. FOIB. I don’t question your generosity, sir, and you need not doubt of success. If you have no more commands, sir, I’ll be gone; I’m sure my lady is at her toilet, and can’t dress till I come. Oh dear, I’m sure that [_looking out_] was Mrs. Marwood that went by in a mask; if she has seen me with you I’m sure she’ll tell my lady. I’ll make haste home and prevent her. Your servant, Sir.—B’w’y, Waitwell. SCENE IX. MIRABELL, WAITWELL. WAIT. Sir Rowland, if you please. The jade’s so pert upon her preferment she forgets herself. MIRA. Come, sir, will you endeavour to forget yourself—and transform into Sir Rowland? WAIT. Why, sir, it will be impossible I should remember myself. Married, knighted, and attended all in one day! ’Tis enough to make any man forget himself. The difficulty will be how to recover my acquaintance and familiarity with my former self, and fall from my transformation to a reformation into Waitwell. Nay, I shan’t be quite the same Waitwell neither—for now I remember me, I’m married, and can’t be my own man again. Ay, there’s my grief; that’s the sad change of life: To lose my title, and yet keep my wife. ACT III.—SCENE I. _A room in Lady Wishfort’s house_. LADY WISHFORT _at her toilet_, PEG _waiting_. LADY. Merciful! No news of Foible yet? PEG. No, madam. LADY. I have no more patience. If I have not fretted myself till I am pale again, there’s no veracity in me. Fetch me the red—the red, do you hear, sweetheart? An errant ash colour, as I’m a person. Look you how this wench stirs! Why dost thou not fetch me a little red? Didst thou not hear me, Mopus? PEG. The red ratafia, does your ladyship mean, or the cherry brandy? LADY. Ratafia, fool? No, fool. Not the ratafia, fool—grant me patience!—I mean the Spanish paper, idiot; complexion, darling. Paint, paint, paint, dost thou understand that, changeling, dangling thy hands like bobbins before thee? Why dost thou not stir, puppet? Thou wooden thing upon wires! PEG. Lord, madam, your ladyship is so impatient.—I cannot come at the paint, madam: Mrs. Foible has locked it up, and carried the key with her. LADY. A pox take you both.—Fetch me the cherry brandy then. SCENE II. LADY WISHFORT. I’m as pale and as faint, I look like Mrs. Qualmsick, the curate’s wife, that’s always breeding. Wench, come, come, wench, what art thou doing? Sipping? Tasting? Save thee, dost thou not know the bottle? SCENE III.