Joy. Nay, good your worship, you are——
(Stops her mouth with his handkerchief)
Gripe. I say you are——
Joy. I must not be rude with your worship.
Gripe. You are a nursing mother to the saints; through you they gather together, through you they fructify and increase, and through you the child cries out of the hand-basket.
Joy. Through you virgins are married, or provided for as well; through you the reprobate's wife is made a saint; and through you the widow is not disconsolate, nor misses her husband.
Gripe. Through you——
Joy. Indeed you will put me to the blush.
Gripe. Blushes are badges of imperfection—Saints have no shame. You are the flower of matrons, Mrs. Joyner.
Joy. You are the pink of courteous Aldermen.