The Way of the World

one of these days, cousin; in the meanwhile I must answer in plain English.

 Mrs. Millamant
Have you any business with me, Sir Wilfull?


Sir Wilful
Not at present, cousin⁠—yes, I made bold to see, to come and know if that how you were disposed to fetch a walk this evening, if so be that I might not be troublesome, I would have sought a walk with you.


 Mrs. Millamant
A walk! What then?


Sir Wilful
Nay, nothing⁠—only for the walk’s sake, that’s all.


 Mrs. Millamant
I nauseate walking: ’tis a country diversion; I loathe the country and everything that relates to it.


Sir Wilful
Indeed! Ha! Look ye, look ye, you do? Nay, ’tis like you may⁠—here are choice of pastimes here in town, as plays and the like, that must be confessed indeed.


 Mrs. Millamant
Ah, l’étourdi! I hate the town too.


Sir Wilful
Dear heart, that’s much⁠—ha! that you should hate ’em both! Ha! ’tis like you may! There are some can’t relish the town, and others can’t away with the country⁠—’tis like you may be one of those, cousin.


 Mrs. Millamant
Ha! ha! ha! Yes, ’tis like I may.⁠—You have nothing further to say to me?


Sir Wilful
Not at present, cousin.⁠—’Tis like when I have an opportunity to be more private⁠—I may break my mind in some measure⁠—I conjecture you partly guess⁠—however, that’s as time shall try. But spare to speak and spare to speed, as they say.


 Mrs. Millamant
If it is of no great importance, Sir Wilfull, you will oblige me to leave me: I have just now a little business⁠—


Sir Wilful
Enough, enough, cousin. Yes, yes, all a case. 75⁠—when you’re disposed: now’s as well as another time; and another time as well as now. All’s one for that⁠—yes, yes; if your concerns call you, there’s no haste: it will keep cold as they say.⁠—Cousin, your servant⁠—I think this door’s locked.


 Mrs. Millamant
You may go this way, sir.


Sir Wilful
Your servant; then with your leave I’ll return to my company.



Exit.


 Mrs. Millamant

Aye, aye; ha! ha! ha!

Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy. 76





Enter Mirabell.


Mirabell
“Like Daphne she, as lovely and as coy.” Do you lock yourself up from me, to make my search more curious? Or is this pretty artifice contrived, to signify that here the chase must end, and my pursuit be crowned, for you can fly no further?


 Mrs. Millamant
Vanity! No⁠—I’ll fly and be followed to the last moment; though I am upon the very verge of matrimony, I expect you should solicit me as much as if I were wavering at the grate of a monastery, with one foot over the threshold. I’ll be solicited to the very lastn nay, and afterwards.


Mirabell
What, after the last?


 Mrs. Millamant
Oh, I should think I was poor and had nothing to bestow if I were reduced to an inglorious ease, and freed from the agreeable fatigues of solicitation.


Mirabell
But do not you know that when favours are conferred upon instant and tedious solicitation, that they diminish in their value, and that both the giver loses the grace, and the receiver lessens his pleasure?


 Mrs. Millamant
It may be in things of common application, 77 but never, sure, in love. Oh, I hate a lover that can dare to think he draws a moment’s air independent on the bounty of his mistress. There is not so impudent a thing in nature as the saucy look of an assured man confident of success: the pedantic arrogance of a very husband has not so pragmatical an air. Ah! I’ll never marry, unless I am first made sure of my will and pleasure.


Mirabell
Would you have ’em both before marriage? Or will you be contented with the first now, and stay for the other till after grace?


 Mrs. Millamant
Ah, don’t be impertinent.⁠—My dear liberty, shall I leave thee? My faithful solitude, my darling contemplation, must I bid you then adieu? Aye-h, adieu⁠—my morning thoughts, agreeable wakings, indolent slumbers, all ye douceurs, ye sommeils du matin, 78 adieu?⁠—I can’t do’t, ’tis more than impossible⁠—positively, Mirabell, I’ll lie abed in a morning as long as I please.


Mirabell
Then I’ll get up in a morning as early as I please.


 Mrs. Millamant
Ah! Idle creature, get up when you will⁠—and d’ye hear, I won’t be called names after I’m married; positively I won’t be called names.


Mirabell
Names!


 Mrs. Millamant
Aye, as wife, spouse, my dear, joy, jewel, love, sweetheart, and the rest of that nauseous cant, in which men and their wives are so fulsomely familiar⁠—I shall never bear that⁠—good Mirabell, don’t let us be familiar or fond, nor kiss before folks, like my Lady Fadler and Sir Francis; nor go to Hyde Park together the first Sunday in a new chariot, to provoke eyes and whispers, and then never be seen there together again, as if we were proud of one another the first week, and ashamed of one another ever after. Let us never visit together, nor go to a play together, but let us be very strange and well-bred. Let us be as strange as if we had been married a great while, and as well-bred as if we were not married at all.


Mirabell
Have you any more conditions to offer? Hitherto your demands are pretty reasonable.


 Mrs. Millamant
Trifles!⁠—As liberty to pay and receive visits to and from whom I please; to write and receive letters, without interrogatories or wry faces on your part; to wear what I please, and choose conversation with regard only to my own taste; to have no obligation upon me to converse with wits that I don’t like, because they are your acquaintance, or to be intimate with fools, because they may be your relations. Come to dinner when I please, dine in my dressing-room when I’m out of humour, without giving a reason. To have my closet inviolate; to be sole empress of my tea-table, which you must never presume to approach without first asking leave. And lastly, wherever I am, you shall always knock at the door before you