PET. Thou art (without a figure) just one half of an ass, and Baldwin yonder, thy half-brother, is the rest. A Gemini of asses split would make just four of you. WIT. Thou dost bite, my dear mustard-seed; kiss me for that. PET. Stand off—I’ll kiss no more males—I have kissed your Twin yonder in a humour of reconciliation till he [_hiccup_] rises upon my stomach like a radish. MILLA. Eh! filthy creature; what was the quarrel? PET. There was no quarrel; there might have been a quarrel. WIT. If there had been words enow between ’em to have expressed provocation, they had gone together by the ears like a pair of castanets. PET. You were the quarrel. MILLA. Me? PET. If I have a humour to quarrel, I can make less matters conclude premises. If you are not handsome, what then? If I have a humour to prove it? If I shall have my reward, say so; if not, fight for your face the next time yourself—I’ll go sleep. WIT. Do, wrap thyself up like a woodlouse, and dream revenge. And, hear me, if thou canst learn to write by to-morrow morning, pen me a challenge. I’ll carry it for thee. PET. Carry your mistress’s monkey a spider; go flea dogs and read romances. I’ll go to bed to my maid. MRS. FAIN. He’s horridly drunk—how came you all in this pickle? WIT. A plot, a plot, to get rid of the knight—your husband’s advice; but he sneaked off. SCENE X. SIR WILFULL, _drunk_, LADY WISHFORT, WITWOUD, MRS. MILLAMANT, MRS. FAINALL. LADY. Out upon’t, out upon’t, at years of discretion, and comport yourself at this rantipole rate! SIR WIL. No offence, aunt. LADY. Offence? As I’m a person, I’m ashamed of you. Fogh! How you stink of wine! D’ye think my niece will ever endure such a Borachio? You’re an absolute Borachio. SIR WIL. Borachio? LADY. At a time when you should commence an amour, and put your best foot foremost— SIR WIL. ’Sheart, an you grutch me your liquor, make a bill.—Give me more drink, and take my purse. [_Sings_]:— Prithee fill me the glass, Till it laugh in my face, With ale that is potent and mellow; He that whines for a lass Is an ignorant ass, For a bumper has not its fellow. But if you would have me marry my cousin, say the word, and I’ll do’t. Wilfull will do’t, that’s the word. Wilfull will do’t, that’s my crest,—my motto I have forgot. LADY. My nephew’s a little overtaken, cousin, but ’tis drinking your health. O’ my word, you are obliged to him— SIR WIL. _In vino veritas_, aunt. If I drunk your health to-day, cousin,—I am a Borachio.—But if you have a mind to be married, say the word and send for the piper; Wilfull will do’t. If not, dust it away, and let’s have t’other round. Tony—ods-heart, where’s Tony?—Tony’s an honest fellow, but he spits after a bumper, and that’s a fault.