Untitled - OUDL Home

152 WILLIAM CONGREVE [ACT III
Sir Paul. Oh, a fine, likely woman as you shall see in a
summer's day! indeed she is, Mr. Careless, in all respects.
Care. And I should not have taken you to have been
so old—
Sir Paul. Alas! that's not it, Mr. Careless; ah! that's not
it; no, no, you shoot wide of the mark a mile; indeed you
do; that's not it, Mr. Careless; no, no, that's not it.
Care. No! what can be the matter then?
Sir Paul. You'll scarcely believe me, when I shall tell
you. My lady is so nice—it's very strange, but it's true—
too true—she's so very nice, that I don't believe she would
touch a man for the world;—at least not above once a
year. I'm sure I have found it so; and, alas! what's once a
year to an old man, who would do good in his generation?
Indeed it's true, Mr. Careless, it breaks my heart.—I am
her husband, as I may say; though far unworthy of that
honour, yet I am her husband; but, alas-a-day! I have no
more familiarity with her person, as to that matter, than
with my own mother;—no indeed.
Care. Alas-a-day, this is a lamentable story! my lady must
be told on't; she must i'faith, Sir Paul; 'tis an injury to the
world.
Sir Paul. Ay, would to Heaven you would, Mr. Careless!
you are mightily in her favour.
Care. I warrant you.—What, we must have a son some
way or other!
Sir Paul. Indeed, I should be mightily bound to you, if
you could bring it about, Mr. Careless.
Lady Ply. \ Coming forward.] Here, Sir Paul, it's from
your steward; here's a return of six hundred pounds; you
may take fifty of it for the next half year.
[Gives him the letter.
Enter Lord FROTH and CYNTHIA.
Sir Paul. How does my girl? come hither to thy father,
poor lamb, thou'rt melancholic.
Lord Froth. Heaven, Sir Paul, you amaze me of all things
in the world!—You are never pleased but when we are all
upon the broad grin; all laugh and no company; ah, then
'tis such a sight to see some teeth;—Sure, you're a great
admirer of my Lady Whifler, Mr. Sneer, and Sir Laurence
Loud, and that gang.