FROTH. I'll walk a turn in the garden, and come to you.

SCENE III.

MELLEFONT, CYNTHIA.

MEL. You're thoughtful, Cynthia?

CYNT. I'm thinking, though marriage makes man and wife one flesh, it
leaves 'em still two fools; and they become more conspicuous by setting
off one another.

MEL. That's only when two fools meet, and their follies are opposed.

CYNT. Nay, I have known two wits meet, and by the opposition of their
wit render themselves as ridiculous as fools. 'Tis an odd game we're
going to play at. What think you of drawing stakes, and giving over in
time?

MEL. No, hang't, that's not endeavouring to win, because it's possible
we may lose; since we have shuffled and cut, let's even turn up trump
now.

CYNT. Then I find it's like cards, if either of us have a good hand it
is an accident of fortune.

MEL. No, marriage is rather like a game at bowls: fortune indeed makes
the match, and the two nearest, and sometimes the two farthest, are
together, but the game depends entirely upon judgment.

CYNT. Still it is a game, and consequently one of us must be a loser.

MEL. Not at all; only a friendly trial of skill, and the winnings to be
laid out in an entertainment. What's here, the music? Oh, my lord has
promised the company a new song; we'll get 'em to give it us by the way.
[_Musicians crossing the stage_.] Pray let us have the favour of you, to
practise the song before the company hear it.

SONG.

I.

Cynthia frowns whene'er I woo her,
Yet she's vext if I give over;
Much she fears I should undo her,
But much more to lose her lover:
Thus, in doubting, she refuses;
And not winning, thus she loses.

II.

Prithee, Cynthia, look behind you,
Age and wrinkles will o'ertake you;
Then too late desire will find you,
When the power must forsake you:
Think, O think o' th' sad condition,
To be past, yet wish fruition.

MEL. You shall have my thanks below. [_To the musicians_, _they go
out_.]

SCENE IV.

[_To them_] SIR PAUL PLYANT _and_ LADY PLYANT.

SIR PAUL. Gadsbud! I am provoked into a fermentation, as my Lady Froth
says; was ever the like read of in story?

LADY PLYANT. Sir Paul, have patience, let me alone to rattle him up.

SIR PAUL. Pray, your ladyship, give me leave to be angry. I'll rattle
him up, I warrant you, I'll firk him with a _certiorari_.

LADY PLYANT. You firk him, I'll firk him myself; pray, Sir Paul, hold
you contented.

CYNT. Bless me, wh