Sir Simon. He's a miserable puppy. He has no more notion, my dear Tom, of a modern "good match," than Eve had of pin money.
Shuff. What are his objections to it?
Sir Simon. I have smoked him; but he doesn't know that;—a silly, sly amour, in another quarter.
Shuff. An amour! That's a very unfashionable reason for declining matrimony.
Sir Simon. You know his romantic flights. The blockhead, I believe, is so attach'd, I shou'dn't wonder if he flew off at a tangent, and married the girl that has bewitch'd him.
Shuff. Who is she?
Sir Simon. She—hem!—she lives with her father, in Penzance.
Shuff. And who is he?
Sir Simon. He——upon my soul I'm asham'd to tell you.
Shuff. Don't be asham'd; we never blush at any thing, in the New School.