own man again.
MIRA. Say you so?
FAIN. Ay, ay; I have experience. I have a wife, and so forth.
SCENE IV.
[To them] MESSENGER.
MESS. Is one Squire Witwoud here?
BET. Yes; what's your business?
MESS. I have a letter for him, from his brother Sir Wilfull, which
I am charged to deliver into his own hands.
BET. He's in the next room, friend. That way.
SCENE V.
MIRABELL, FAINALL, BETTY.
MIRA. What, is the chief of that noble family in town, Sir Wilfull
Witwoud?
FAIN. He is expected to-day. Do you know him?
MIRA. I have seen him; he promises to be an
extraordinary person.
I think you have the honour to be
related to him.
FAIN. Yes; he is half-brother to this Witwoud by a former wife, who
was sister to my Lady Wishfort, my wife's mother. If you marry
Millamant, you must call cousins too.
MIRA. I had rather be his relation than his acquaintance.
FAIN. He comes to town in order to equip himself for travel.
MIRA. For travel! Why the man that I mean is above forty.
FAIN. No matter for that; 'tis for the honour of England that all
Europe should know we have blockheads of all ages.
MIRA. I wonder there is not an act of
parliament to save the credit
of the nation and
prohibit the exportation of fools.
FAIN. By no means, 'tis better as 'tis; 'tis better to trade with a
little loss, than to be quite eaten up with being overstocked.
MIRA. Pray, are the follies of this
knight-errant and those of the
squire, his brother, anything
related?
FAIN. Not at all: Witwoud grows by the
knight like a medlar
grafted on a crab. One will melt in your mouth and t'other set your
teeth on edge; one is all pulp and the other all core.
MIRA. So one will be
rotten before he be ripe, and the other will
be
rotten without ever being ripe at all.
FAIN. Sir Wilfull is an odd
mixture of bashfulness and obstinacy.
But when he's drunk, he's as
loving as the
monster in The Tempest,
and much after the same manner. To give
bother his due, he has
something of good-nature, and does not always want wit.
MIRA. Not always: but as often as his memory fails him and his
commonplace of comparisons. He is a fool with a good memory and
some few scraps of other folks' wit. He is one whose conversation
can never be approved, yet it is now and then to be endured. He has
indeed one good quality: he is not exceptious, for he so
passionately affects the
reputation of understanding raillery that
he will construe an
affront into a jest, and call
downright rudeness
and ill language
satire and fire.
FAIN. If you have a mind to finish his picture, you have an
opportunity to do it at full length. Behold the original.
SCENE VI.
[To them] WITWOUD.
WIT. Afford me your
compassion, my dears; pity me, Fainall,
Mirabell, pity me.
MIRA. I do from my soul.
FAIN. Why, what's the matter?
WIT. No letters for me, Betty?
BET. Did not a
messenger bring you one but now, sir?
WIT. Ay; but no other?
BET. No, sir.
WIT. That's hard, that's very hard. A
messenger, a mule, a beast
of burden, he has brought me a letter from the fool my brother, as
heavy as a panegyric in a
funeralsermon, or a copy of commendatory
verses from one poet to another. And what's worse, 'tis as sure a
forerunner of the author as an
epistle dedicatory.
MIRA. A fool, and your brother, Witwoud?
WIT. Ay, ay, my half-brother. My half-brother he is, no nearer,
upon honour.
MIRA. Then 'tis possible he may be but half a fool.
WIT. Good, good, Mirabell, LE DROLE! Good, good, hang him, don't
let's talk of him.--Fainall, how does your lady? Gad, I say
anything in the world to get this fellow out of my head. I beg
pardon that I should ask a man of pleasure and the town a question
at once so foreign and
domestic. But I talk like an old maid at a