Scene II
The dining room in Lady Wishfort’s house.
Sir Wilfull drunk, Lady Wishfort, Witwoud, Mrs. Millamant, and Mrs. Fainall. | |
Lady Wishfort | Out upon’t, out upon’t! At years of discretion, and comport yourself at this rantipole rate! |
Sir Wilful | No offence, aunt. |
Lady Wishfort | Offence! as I’m a person, I’m ashamed of you—foh! How you stink of wine! D’ye think my niece will ever endure such a Borachio!86 You’re an absolute Borachio. |
Sir Wilful | Borachio? |
Lady Wishfort | At a time when you should commence an amour, and put your best foot foremost— |
Sir Wilful |
S’heart, an you grutch me your liquor, make a bill—give me more drink, and take my purse—Sings.
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 Wishfort | My nephew’s a little overtaken, cousin—but ’tis drinking your health.—O’ my word, you are obliged to him. |
Sir Wilful |
In vino veritas, aunt.—If I drunk your health today, 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—Sings.
The sun’s a good pimple, an honest soaker, he has a cellar at your antipodes. If I travel, aunt, I touch at your antipodes—your antipodes are a good rascally sort of topsy-turvy fellows. If I had a bumper I’d stand upon my head and drink a health to ’em.—A match or no match, cousin with the hard name?—Aunt, Wilfull will do’t. If she has her maidenhead let her look to ’t; if she has not, let her keep her own counsel in the meantime, and cry out at the nine months’ end. |
Mrs. Millamant | Your pardon, madam, I can stay no longer—Sir Wilfull grows very powerful. Eh! how he smells! I shall be overcome if I stay.—Come, cousin. |
Exeunt Mrs. Millamant and Mrs. Fainall. | |
Lady Wishfort | Smells! He would poison a tallow-chandler and his family! Beastly creature, I know not what to do with him.—Travel, quotha; aye, travel, travel, get thee gone, get thee but far enough, to the Saracens, or the Tartars, or the Turks!—for thou art not fit to live in a Christian commonwealth, thou beastly pagan! |
Sir Wilful |
Turks, no; no Turks, aunt: your Turks are infidels, and believe not in the grape. Your Muhammadan, your Mussulman is a dry stinkard—no offence, aunt. My map says that your Turk is not so honest a man as your Christian. I cannot find by the map that your Mufti is orthodox—whereby it is a plain case that orthodox is a hard word, aunt, and Hiccups. Greek for claret.—Sings.
Ah, Tony! |
Enter Foible, who whispers to Lady Wishfort. | |
Lady Wishfort | Aside to Foible.—Sir Rowland impatient? Good lack! what shall I do with this beastly tumbril?—Aloud. Go lie down and sleep, you sot!—or as I’m a person, I’ll have you bastinadoed with broomsticks.87—Call up the wenches. |
Sir Wilful | Ahey! Wenches, where are the wenches? |
Lady Wishfort | Dear Cousin Witwoud, get him away, and you will bind me to you inviolably. I have an affair of moment that invades me with some precipitation—you will oblige me to all futurity. |
Witwoud | Come, knight.—Pox on him, I don’t know what to say to him.—Will you go to a cock-match? |
Sir Wilful | With a wench, Tony? Is she a shakebag, sirrah? Let me bite your cheek for that. |
Witwoud | Horrible! He has a breath like a bagpipe!—Aye, aye; come, will you march, my Salopian?88 |
Sir Wilful |
Lead on, little Tony—I’ll follow thee, my Anthony, |