Mrs. F. I like not this beginning—
Selby. Pray you, attend.
"The Secret, like a night-hag, rid his sleeps,
And took the youthful pleasures from his days,
And chased the youthful smoothness from his brow,
That from a rose-cheek'd boy he waned and waned
To a pale skeleton of what he was;
And would have died, but for one lucky chance."
Kath. Oh!
Mrs. F. Your wife—she faints—some cordial—smell to this.