PET. Why should a man be any further from being married, though he can’t read, than he is from being hanged? The ordinary’s paid for setting the psalm, and the parish priest for reading the ceremony. And for the rest which is to follow in both cases, a man may do it without book. So all’s one for that. MILLA. D’ye hear the creature? Lord, here’s company; I’ll begone. SCENE XIV. SIR WILFULL WITWOUD _in a riding dress_, MRS. MARWOOD, PETULANT, WITWOUD, FOOTMAN. WIT. In the name of Bartlemew and his Fair, what have we here? MRS. MAR. ’Tis your brother, I fancy. Don’t you know him? WIT. Not I:—yes, I think it is he. I’ve almost forgot him; I have not seen him since the revolution. FOOT. Sir, my lady’s dressing. Here’s company, if you please to walk in, in the meantime. SIR WIL. Dressing! What, it’s but morning here, I warrant, with you in London; we should count it towards afternoon in our parts down in Shropshire:—why, then, belike my aunt han’t dined yet. Ha, friend? FOOT. Your aunt, sir? SIR WIL. My aunt, sir? Yes my aunt, sir, and your lady, sir; your lady is my aunt, sir. Why, what dost thou not know me, friend? Why, then, send somebody hither that does. How long hast thou lived with thy lady, fellow, ha? FOOT. A week, sir; longer than anybody in the house, except my lady’s woman. SIR WIL. Why, then, belike thou dost not know thy lady, if thou seest her. Ha, friend? FOOT. Why, truly, sir, I cannot safely swear to her face in a morning, before she is dressed. ’Tis like I may give a shrewd guess at her by this time. SIR WIL. Well, prithee try what thou canst do; if thou canst not guess, enquire her out, dost hear, fellow? And tell her her nephew, Sir Wilfull Witwoud, is in the house. FOOT. I shall, sir. SIR WIL. Hold ye, hear me, friend, a word with you in your ear: prithee who are these gallants? FOOT. Really, sir, I can’t tell; here come so many here, ’tis hard to know ’em all. SCENE XV. SIR WILFULL WITWOUD, PETULANT, WITWOUD, MRS. MARWOOD. SIR WIL. Oons, this fellow knows less than a starling: I don’t think a knows his own name. MRS. MAR. Mr. Witwoud, your brother is not behindhand in forgetfulness. I fancy he has forgot you too. WIT. I hope so. The devil take him that remembers first, I say. SIR WIL. Save you, gentlemen and lady. MRS. MAR. For shame, Mr. Witwoud; why won’t you speak to him?—And you, sir. WIT. Petulant, speak. PET. And you, sir. SIR WIL. No offence, I hope? [_Salutes_ MARWOOD.] MRS. MAR. No, sure, sir. WIT. This is a vile dog, I see that already. No offence? Ha, ha, ha. To him, to him, Petulant, smoke him. PET. It seems as if you had come a journey, sir; hem, hem. [_Surveying him round_.] SIR WIL. Very likely, sir, that it may seem so. PET. No offence, I hope, sir? WIT. Smoke the boots, the boots, Petulant, the boots; ha, ha, ha! SIR WILL. Maybe not, sir; thereafter as ’tis meant, sir.