The Way of the World | Page 9

finding himself, sometimes
leave a letter for himself.
MIRA. I confess this is something extraordinary. I believe he waits for
himself now, he is so long a coming; oh, I ask his pardon.
SCENE IX.
PETULANT, MIRABELL, FAINALL, WITWOUD, BETTY.
BET. Sir, the coach stays.
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.
MIRA. Oh, raillery, raillery! Come, I know thou art in the women's
secrets. What, you're a cabalist; I know you stayed at Millamant's last
night after I went. Was there any mention made of my uncle or me?
Tell me; if thou hadst but good nature equal to thy wit, Petulant, Tony
Witwoud, who is now thy competitor in fame, would show as dim by
thee as a dead whiting's eye by a pearl of orient; he would no more be
seen by thee than Mercury is by the sun: come, I'm sure thou wo't tell
me.
PET. If I do, will you grant me common sense, then, for the future?
MIRA. Faith, I'll do what I can for thee, and I'll pray that heav'n may
grant it thee in the meantime.
PET. Well, harkee.
FAIN. Petulant and you both will find Mirabell as warm a rival as a
lover.

WIT. Pshaw, pshaw, that she laughs at Petulant is plain. And for my
part, but that it is almost a fashion to admire her, I should-- harkee--to
tell you a secret, but let it go no further between friends, I shall never
break my heart for her.
FAIN. How?
WIT. She's handsome; but she's a sort of an uncertain woman.
FAIN. I thought you had died for her.
WIT. Umh--no -
FAIN. She has wit.
WIT. 'Tis what she will hardly allow anybody else. Now, demme, I
should hate that, if she were as handsome as Cleopatra. Mirabell is not
so sure of her as he thinks for.
FAIN. Why do you think so?
WIT. We stayed pretty late there last night,