I'll play on to entertain you.
FAIN. No, I'll give you your revenge another time, when you are not
so indifferent; you are thinking of something else now, and play too
negligently: the coldness of a losing gamester lessens the pleasure
of the winner. I'd no more play with a man that slighted his ill
fortune than I'd make love to a woman who undervalued the loss of
her reputation.
MIRA. You have a taste extremely delicate, and are for refining on
your pleasures.
FAIN. Prithee, why so reserved? Something has put you out of
humour.
MIRA. Not at all: I happen to be grave to-day, and you are gay;
that's all.
FAIN. Confess, Millamant and you quarrelled last night, after I
left you; my fair cousin has some humours that would tempt the
patience of a Stoic. What, some coxcomb came in, and was well
received by her, while you were by?
MIRA. Witwoud and Petulant, and what was worse, her aunt, your
wife's mother, my evil genius--or to sum up all in her own name, my
old Lady Wishfort came in.
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