of burden, he has brought me a letter from the fool my brother, as
heavy as a panegyric in a funeral sermon, 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
marriage, I don't know what I say: but she's the best woman in the
world.

FAIN. 'Tis well you don't know what you say, or else your
commendation would go near to make me either vain or jealous.

WIT. No man in town lives well with a wife but Fainall. Your
judgment, Mirabell?

MIRA. You had better step and ask his wife, if you would be
credibly informed.

WIT. Mirabell!