you know, bud, still. Pinchwife Aside. So⁠—he knew her certainly; but for this confession, I am obliged to her simplicity.⁠—Aloud. But what, you stood very still when he kissed you? Mrs. Pinchwife Yes, I warrant you; would you have had me discovered myself? Pinchwife But you told me he did some beastliness to you, as you call it; what was’t? Mrs. Pinchwife Why, he put⁠— Pinchwife What? Mrs. Pinchwife Why, he put the tip of his tongue between my lips, and so mousled me⁠—and I said, I’d bite it. Pinchwife An eternal canker seize it, for a dog! Mrs. Pinchwife Nay, you need not be so angry with him neither, for to say truth, he has the sweetest breath I ever knew. Pinchwife The devil! you were satisfied with it then, and would do it again? Mrs. Pinchwife Not unless he should force me. Pinchwife Force you, changeling! I tell you, no woman can be forced. Mrs. Pinchwife Yes, but she may sure, by such a one as he, for he’s a proper, goodly, strong man; ’tis hard, let me tell you, to resist him. Pinchwife Aside. So, ’tis plain she loves him, yet she has not love enough to make her conceal it from me; but the sight of him will increase her aversion for me and love for him; and that love instruct her how to deceive me and satisfy him, all idiot as she is. Love! ’twas he gave women first their craft, their art of deluding. Out of Nature’s hands they came plain, open, silly, and fit for slaves, as she and Heaven intended ’em; but damned Love⁠—well⁠—I must strangle that little monster whilst I can deal with him.⁠—Aloud. Go fetch pen, ink, and paper out of the next room. Mrs. Pinchwife Yes, bud. Exit. Pinchwife Why should women have more invention in love than men? It can only be, because they have more desires, more soliciting passions, more lust, and more of the devil. Re-enter Mrs. Pinchwife. Come, minx, sit down and write. Mrs. Pinchwife Ay, dear bud, but I can’t do’t very well. Pinchwife I wish you could not at all. Mrs. Pinchwife But what should I write for? Pinchwife I’ll have you write a letter to your lover. Mrs. Pinchwife O Lord, to the fine gentleman a letter! Pinchwife Yes, to the fine gentleman. Mrs. Pinchwife Lord, you do but jeer: sure you jest. Pinchwife I am not so merry: come, write as I bid you. Mrs. Pinchwife What, do you think I am a fool? Pinchwife Aside. She’s afraid I would not dictate any love to him, therefore she’s unwilling.⁠—Aloud. But you had best begin. Mrs. Pinchwife Indeed, and indeed, but I won’t, so I won’t. Pinchwife Why? Mrs. Pinchwife Because he’s in town; you may send for him if you will. Pinchwife Very well, you would have him brought to you; is it come to this? I say, take the pen and write, or you’ll provoke me. Mrs. Pinchwife Lord, what d’ye make a fool of me for? Don’t I know that letters are never writ but from the country to London, and from London into the country? Now he’s in town, and I am in town too; therefore I can’t write to him, you know. Pinchwife Aside. So, I am glad it is no worse; she is innocent enough yet.⁠—Aloud. Yes, you may, when your husband bids you, write letters to people that are in town. Mrs. Pinchwife O, may I so? then I’m satisfied. Pinchwife Come, begin:⁠—“Sir”⁠—Dictates. Mrs. Pinchwife Shan’t I say, “Dear Sir?”⁠—You know one says always something more than bare “sir.” Pinchwife Write as I bid you, or I will write whore with this penknife in your face. Mrs. Pinchwife Nay, good bud⁠—“Sir”⁠—Writes. Pinchwife “Though I suffered last night your nauseous, loathed kisses and embraces”⁠—Write! Mrs. Pinchwife Nay, why should I say so? You know I told you he had a sweet breath. Pinchwife Write! Mrs. Pinchwife Let me but put out “loathed.” Pinchwife Write, I say! Mrs. Pinchwife Well then. Writes. Pinchwife Let’s see, what have you writ?⁠—Takes the paper and reads. “Though I suffered last night your kisses and embraces”⁠—Thou impudent creature! where is “nauseous” and “loathed?” Mrs. Pinchwife I can’t abide to write such filthy words. Pinchwife Once more write as I’d have you, and question it not, or I will spoil thy writing with this. I will stab out those eyes that cause my mischief. Holds up the penknife. Mrs. Pinchwife O Lord! I will. Pinchwife So⁠—so⁠—let’s see now.⁠—Reads. “Though I suffered last night your nauseous, loathed kisses and embraces”⁠—go on⁠—“yet I would not have you presume that you shall ever repeat them”⁠—so⁠—She writes. Mrs. Pinchwife I have writ it. Pinchwife On, then⁠—“I then concealed myself from your knowledge, to avoid your insolencies.”⁠—She writes. Mrs. Pinchwife So⁠— Pinchwife “The same reason, now I am out of your hands⁠—” She writes. Mrs. Pinchwife So⁠— Pinchwife “Makes me own to you my unfortunate, though innocent frolic, of being in man’s clothes”⁠—She writes. Mrs. Pinchwife So⁠— Pinchwife “That you may for evermore cease to pursue her, who hates and detests you”⁠—She writes on. Mrs. Pinchwife So⁠—heigh! Sighs. Pinchwife What, do you sigh?⁠—“detests you⁠—as much as she loves her husband and her honour⁠—” Mrs. Pinchwife I vow, husband, he’ll ne’er believe I should write such a letter. Pinchwife What, he’d expect a kinder from you? Come, now your name only. Mrs. Pinchwife What, shan’t I say “Your most faithful humble servant till death?” Pinchwife No, tormenting fiend!⁠—Aside. Her style, I find, would be very soft.⁠—Aloud. Come, wrap it up now whilst I go fetch wax and a candle; and write on the backside, “For Mr. Horner.” Exit. Mrs. Pinchwife “For Mr. Horner.”⁠—So, I am glad he has told me his name. Dear Mr. Horner! but why should I send thee such a letter that will vex thee, and make thee angry with me?⁠—Well, I will not send it.⁠—Ay, but then my husband will kill me⁠—for I see plainly he won’t let me love Mr. Horner⁠—but what care I for my husband?⁠—I won’t, so I won’t, send poor Mr. Horner such a letter⁠—But then my husband⁠—but oh, what if I writ at bottom my husband made me write it?⁠—Ay, but then my husband would see’t⁠—Can one have no shift? ah, a London woman would have had a hundred presently. Stay⁠—what if I should write a letter, and wrap it up like this, and write