SIR PAUL. Alas, that's not it, Mr. Careless; ah! that's not it; no,
no, you shoot wide of the mark a mile; indeed you do, that's not it,
Mr. Careless; no, no, that's not it.

CARE. No? What can be the matter then?

SIR PAUL. You'll scarcely believe me when I shall tell you--my lady
is so nice. It's very strange, but it's true; too true--she's so
very nice, that I don't believe she would touch a man for the world.
At least not above once a year; I'm sure I have found it so; and,
alas, what's once a year to an old man, who would do good in his
generation? Indeed it's true, Mr. Careless, it breaks my heart. I
am her husband, as I may say; though far unworthy of that honour,
yet I am her husband; but alas-a-day, I have no more familiarity
with her person--as to that matter--than with my own mother--no
indeed.

CARE. Alas-a-day, this is a lamentable story. My lady must be told
on't. She must i'faith, Sir Paul; 'tis an injury to the world.

SIR PAUL. Ah! would to heaven you would, Mr. Careless; you are
mightily in her favour.

CARE. I warrant you, what! we must have a son some way or other.

SIR PAUL. Indeed I should be mightily bound to you if you could
bring it about, Mr. Careless.

LADY PLYANT. Here, Sir Paul, it's from your steward. Here's a
return of 600 pounds; you may take fifty of it for the next half