Lydia.—Ah, madam! our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget.
Mrs. Malaprop.—But I say it is, miss! there is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle as if he had never existed—and I thought it my duty so to do; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman.
Sir Anthony.—Why, sure she won't pretend to remember what she's ordered not! Ay, this comes of her reading!
Lydia.—What crime, madam, have I committed to be treated thus?
Mrs. Malaprop.—Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell me, will you promise to do as you're bid? Will you take a husband of your friends' choosing?
Lydia.—Madam, I must tell you plainly that had I no preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion.
Mrs. Malaprop.—What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion. They don't become a young woman; and you ought to know that as both always wear off, 'tis safest in matrimony to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your poor dear uncle before marriage as if he'd been a blackamoor; and yet, miss, you are sensible what a wife I made? and when it pleased Heaven to release me from him, 'tis unknown what tears I shed! But suppose we were going to give you another choice, will you promise us to give up this Beverley?
Lydia.—Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words.
Mrs. Malaprop.—Take yourself to your room. You are fit company for nothing but your own ill-humours.