Watchit. Because the mind has nothing to do with the flesh.
Mrs. W. That's your mistake, Sir; the body is governed by the mind. So much philosophy I know.
Wat. Yes, yes; I believe you understand natural philosophy very well, wife; I doubt not the flesh has got the better of the spirit in you. Look ye, madam! every man's wife is his vineyard; you are mine, therefore I wall you in. Ods budikins, ne'er a coxcomb in the kingdom shall plant as much as a primrose in my ground.
Mrs. W. I am sure your management will produce nothing but thorns.
Wat. Nay, every wife is a thorn in her husband's side. Your whole sex is a kind of sweet-briar, and he who meddles with it is sure to prick his fingers.
Lucy. That is when you handle us too roughly.
Mrs. W. You are a kind of rue: neither good for smell nor taste.
Wat. But very wholesome, wife.
Mrs. W. Ay, so they say of all bitters, yet I would not be obliged to feed on gentian and wormwood.
Some subjects are peculiarly suitable for light female humour. In "The Beau's Duel, or a Soldier for the Ladies," we have the following soliloquy by Sir William Mode, a fop, as he stands in his night-gown looking into his glass: