Pa. It should rather have been Martia.
Ma. Why so, pray, what is Mars to me?
Pa. Because just as Mars makes a Sport of killing Men, so do you; saving that you do it the more cruelly of the two, because you kill one that loves you.
Ma. Say you so! pray where's the great Slaughter of Men that I have made? Where's the Blood of the Slain?
Pa. You may see one dead Corpse before your Face, if you look upon me.
Ma. What strange Story is this? Does a dead Man talk and walk? I wish I may never meet with more frightful Ghosts than you are.
Pa. Ay, indeed, you make a Jest of it; but for all that, you kill poor me, and more cruelly too, than if you stuck a Dagger in my Breast. For now I, poor Wretch as I am, die a lingering Death.
Ma. Prithee tell me, how many Women with Child have miscarried at the Sight of thee?
Pa. My Paleness shews I have no more Blood in my Body than a Ghost.
Ma. Indeed you are as pale as a Violet; You are as pale as a ripe Cherry, or purple Grape.