Gripe. You are the muffler of secrecy.
Joy. You are the head-band of Justice.
Gripe. Thank you, sweet Mrs. Joyner; do you think so indeed? You are—you are the bonfire of devotion.
Joy. You are the bellows of zeal.
Gripe. You are the cupboard of charity.
Joy. You are the fob of liberality.
Gripe. You are the rivet of sanctified love or wedlock.
Joy. You are the pick-lock and dark-lantern of policy; and in a word a conventicle of virtues.
Gripe. Your servant, your servant, sweet Mrs. Joyner! You have stopped my mouth.
Joy. Your servant, your servant, sweet Alderman! I have nothing to say.