Skin. Why really, Madam——
Har. Why really, Sir, you'll repent it.
Skin. I believe it, I believe it, Madam.
Har. What you, who are a gouty, cholicky, feverish, paralytick, hydropic, asthmatic, and a thousand Diseases besides, venture to light Hymen's Torch! Why, Sir, it is perfect Madness; it is making but one Step from your Wedding to your Grave. Pray Sir, how long do you expect to live?
Skin. Not long I am sure if I marry you.
Har. You are in the right on't, Sir; it will not be consistent with my Pleasure or my Interest that you should live above a Fortnight; um—ay, in about a Fortnight I can do it. Let me see; ay, it is but pulling away a Pillow in one of your coughing Fits—or speaking properly to your Apothecary—a very little Ratsbane or Laudanum will do the Business!
Skin. O monstrous!
Bell. Madam, this is a behaviour unbecoming the Daughter of Lady Lovewealth, and what I am confident her Ladyship will highly resent.
Har. You are mistaken, Sir; my Lady has consented to his Death in a Fortnight after our Marriage.
Skin. O lud! O lud!