_Wood._ The dialogue will go no farther. Farewell, gentle, quiet lady.

_Pleas._ Pray stay a little; I'll not leave you thus.

_Wood._ I know it; and therefore mean to leave you first.

_Pleas._ O, I find it now! you are going to set up your bills, like a
love-mountebank, for the speedy cure of distressed widows, old ladies,
and languishing maids in the green-sickness: a sovereign remedy.

_Wood._ That last, for maids, would be thrown away: Few of your age
are qualified for the medicine. What the devil would you be at, madam?

_Pleas._ I am in the humour of giving you good counsel. The wife can
afford you but the leavings of a fop; and to a witty man, as you think
yourself, that is nauseous: The mistress has fed upon a fool so long,
she is carrion too, and common into the bargain. Would you beat a
ground for game in the afternoon, when my lord mayor's pack had been
before you in the morning?

_Wood._ I had rather sit five hours at one of his greasy feasts, then
hear you talk.

_Pleas._ Your two mistresses keep both shop and warehouse; and what
they cannot put off in gross, to the keeper and the husband, they sell
by retail to the next chance-customer. Come, are you edified?

_Wood._ I am considering how to thank you for your homily; and, to
make a sober application of it, you may have some laudable design
yourself in this advice.