Shuff. No.—The patient survives who was sick of his money. 'Tis a loan from a friend.
Frank. 'Twould be a pity, then, Tom, if the patient experienced improper treatment.
Shuff. Why, that's true:—but his case is so rare, that it isn't well understood, I believe. Curse me, my dear Frank, if the disease of lending is epidemic.
Frank. But the disease of trying to borrow, my dear Tom, I am afraid, is.
Shuff. Very prevalent, indeed, at the west end of the town.
Frank. And as dangerous, Tom, as the small-pox. They should inoculate for it.
Shuff. That wouldn't be a bad scheme; but I took it naturally. Psha! damn it, don't shake your head. Mine's but a mere façon de parler: just as we talk to one another about our coats:—we never say, "Who's your tailor?" We always ask, "Who suffers?" Your father tells me you are going to be married; I give you joy.
Frank. Joy! I have known nothing but torment, and misery, since this cursed marriage has been in agitation.
Shuff. Umph! Marriage was a weighty affair, formerly; so was a family coach;—but domestic duties, now, are like town chariots;—they must be made light, to be fashionable.
Frank. Oh, do not trifle. By acceding to this match, in obedience to my father, I leave to all the pangs of remorse, and disappointed love, a helpless, humble girl, and rend the fibres of a generous, but too credulous heart, by cancelling like a villain, the oaths with which I won it.