Sol. No; not if she was in such a one as yours.
Cart. But I know you very well, who are not altered as to your Dress; but your Face, and the whole Habit of your Body: Why, how many Colours are you painted with? No Bird had ever such a Variety of Feathers. How all is cut and slash'd! Nothing according to Nature or Fashion! your cut Hair, your half-shav'd Beard, and that Wood upon your upper Lip, entangled and standing out straggling like the Whiskers of a Cat. Nor is it one single Scar that has disfigured your Face, that you may very well be taken for one of the Samian literati, [q.d. burnt in the Cheek] concerning whom there is a joking Proverb.
Sol. Thus it becomes a Man to come back from the Wars. But, pray, tell me, was there so great a Scarcity of good Physicians in this Quarter of the World?
Cart. Why do you ask?
Sol. Because you did not get the Distemper of your Brain cur'd, before you plung'd yourself into this Slavery.
Cart. Why, do you think I was mad then?
Sol. Yes, I do. What Occasion was there for you to be buried here, before your Time, when you had enough in the World to have lived handsomely upon?
Cart. What, don't you think I live in the World now?
Sol. No, by Jove.
Cart. Tell me why.