MEL. O' my word, Brisk, that was a home thrust; you have silenced
him.

BRISK. Oh, my dear Mellefont, let me perish if thou art not the
soul of conversation, the very essence of wit and spirit of wine.
The deuce take me if there were three good things said, or one
understood, since thy amputation from the body of our society. He,
I think that's pretty and metaphorical enough; i'gad I could not
have said it out of thy company. Careless, ha?

CARE. Hum, ay, what is't?

BRISK. O MON COEUR! What is't! Nay, gad, I'll punish you for want
of apprehension. The deuce take me if I tell you.

MEL. No, no, hang him, he has no taste. But, dear Brisk, excuse
me, I have a little business.

CARE. Prithee get thee gone; thou seest we are serious.

MEL. We'll come immediately, if you'll but go in and keep up good
humour and sense in the company. Prithee do, they'll fall asleep
else.

BRISK. I'gad, so they will. Well, I will, I will; gad, you shall
command me from the Zenith to the Nadir. But the deuce take me if I
say a good thing till you come. But prithee, dear rogue, make
haste, prithee make haste, I shall burst else. And yonder your
uncle, my Lord Touchwood, swears he'll disinherit you, and Sir Paul
Plyant threatens to disclaim you for a son-in-law, and my Lord Froth