Letty. True—and for the same reason, I suppose, you rejoice when it is successful.—I'm sure now the intended marriage of Lady Waitfor't and Lord Scratch gives you great pleasure.
Mari. What! the country gentleman who has lately come to his title? No, if you'll believe me, I don't like him at all,—he's a sour old fellow—is always abusing our sex, and thinks there is only one good woman under heaven:—now, I'm sure that's a mistake, for I know I'm a good woman, and I think, Letty, you are another.
Letty. Yes,—I hope so, though I confess I think your aunt is better than either of us.
Mari. More shame for you—she is a woman of sentiment, and hums you over with her flourishes about purity, and feelings.—Feelings!—'faith, she ought to be ashamed of herself—no other woman would talk in that manner.
Letty. You mistake her—she is a woman of virtue, and can't help feeling for the vices and misfortunes of others.
Mari. Then why can't she do as I have done, Letty? keep her feelings to herself—If I had given way to them half so much as she has—Oh Lord! I don't know what might have been the consequence.
Letty. For shame! You never hear Lady Waitfor't speak ill of any body.
Mari. No,—How should she, when she talks of nobody but herself?
Letty. Well, your opinion is of little weight; my Lord sees her merit, and is come to Bath on purpose to marry her—he thinks her a prodigy of goodness.
Mari. Then, pray let him have her—every fool knows so, to be sure he does, Letty, that a prodigy of goodness is a very rare thing;—but when he finds her out!—'faith, it will be a rare joke, when he finds her out.