Fred. She must be very handsome, I suppose?
Col. The handsomer the better, but be sure she has a nose.
Fred. Ay! ay! and some gold.
Col. Oh, very much gold. I shall never be able to swallow the matrimonial pill, if it be not well gilded.
Fred. Puh, beauty will make it slide down nimbly.
Col. At first, perhaps it may, but the second or third dose will choke me. I confess, Frederick, women are the prettiest playthings in nature; but gold, substantial gold gives 'em the air, the mien, the shape, the grace and beauty of a goddess.
Fred. And has not gold the same divinity in their eyes, Colonel?
Col. Too often—money is the very god of marriage, the poets dress him in a saffron robe by which they figure out the golden Deity, and his lighted torch blazons those mighty charms, which encourage us to list under his banner.
In "The Artifice" we have a matrimonial contention:
Lucy. If you two are one flesh, how come you to have different minds, pray, Sir?