You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles
YUMPU automatically turns print PDFs into web optimized ePapers that Google loves.
228 WILLIAM CONGREVE [ACT II<br />
this way.—Is not it pure?—It's better than lavender, mun—<br />
I'm resolved I won't let nurse put any more lavender<br />
among my smocks—ha, cousin?<br />
Mrs. Frail. Fy, miss! amongst your linen, you must say;<br />
—you must never say smock.<br />
Prue. Why, it is not bawdy, is it, cousin?<br />
Tat. Oh, madam, you are too severe upon miss; you<br />
must not find fault with her pretty simplicity, it becomes<br />
her strangely.—Pretty miss, don't let 'cm persuade you out<br />
of your innocency.<br />
Mrs. Fore. Oh, demn you, toad!—I wish you don't persuade<br />
her out of her innocency.<br />
Tat. Who I, madam?—Oh Lord, how can your ladyship<br />
have such a thought—sure you don't know me?<br />
Mrs. Frail. Ah, devil! sly devil!—He's as close, sister, as<br />
a confessor.—He thinks we don't observe him.<br />
Mrs. Fore. A cunning cur! how soon he could find out a<br />
fresh harmless creature! and left us, sister, presently.<br />
Tat. Upon reputation—<br />
Mrs. Fore. They're all so, sister, these men:—they love<br />
to have the spoiling of a young thing, they are as fond of<br />
it, as of being first in the fashion, or of seeing a new play<br />
the first day.—I warrant it would break Mr. Tattle's heart,<br />
to think that anybody else should be beforehand with him.<br />
Tat. Oh Lord, I swear I would not for the world—<br />
Mrs. Frail. O hang you! who'll believe you?—You'd be<br />
hanged before you'd confess—we know you—she's very<br />
pretty!—Lord, what pure red and white!—she looks so<br />
wholesome;—ne'er stir, I don't know, but I fancy, if I<br />
were a man—<br />
Prue. How you love to jeer one, cousin!<br />
Mrs. Fore. Hark ye, sister.—By my soul the girl is<br />
spoiled already—d'ye think she'll ever endure a great lubberly<br />
tarpaulin!—gad, I warrant you, she won't let him<br />
come near her, after Mr. Tattle.<br />
Mrs. Frail. D' my soul, I'm afraid not—eh!—filthy<br />
creature, that smells of all pitch and tar.—[To TATTLE.]<br />
Devil take you, you confounded toad}—why did you see<br />
her before she was married?<br />
Mrs. Fore. Nay, why did we let him?—My husband will<br />
hang us;—he'll think we brought 'em acquainted.<br />
Mrs. Frail. Come, faith, let us begone.—If my brother
Change language