why this wench foible is the passe-partout, the very master-key to everybody's strong box. my friend mistress fainall. i thought there was something in it with mirabell, but it seems 'tis over with you. "madam marwood has a month's mind, but mr. mirabell can't abide her." 'twere better for mirabell if she had not been his confessor in that affair, without she could have kept his counsel closer. ah, i shall not prove a pattern of generosity and stalk for him. he has not obliged me to that. and now, i'll have none of him. why, then, foible's a bawd, an errant, rank, match-making bawd. and i, it seems, am a husband, a rank husband, and my wife is a very errant, rank wife, all in the way of the world. 'sdeath, to be out-witted, to be out-jilted, to be out-matrimonied. if i had kept my speed like a stag, 'twere somewhat, but to crawl after, with my horns like a snail, to be outstripped by my wife, 'tis scurvy wedlock. then shake it off. you have often wished for an opportunity to part, and now you have it. but first prevent their plot. the half of millamant's fortune is too cons