Petulant Monologue from The Way of the World

From The Way of the World by William Congreve

male · sarcastic · 53 sec

Well, well, I come. ’Sbud, a man had as good be a professed midwife as a professed whoremaster, at this rate; to be knocked up and raised at all hours, and in all places. Pox on ’em, I won’t come. D’ye hear, tell ’em I won’t come. Let ’em snivel and cry their hearts out. (FAIN: You are very cruel, Petulant.) All’s one, let it pass. I have a humour to be cruel. (MIRA: I hope they are not persons of condition that you use at this rate.) Condition? Condition’s a dried fig, if I am not in humour. By this hand, if they were your—a—a—your what-d’ee-call-’ems themselves, they must wait or rub off, if I want appetite.

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