Julia. Who has he in his company?
O'Carrol. Why, madam, why—now dare not I tell who, for fear of offending her.—Company? Why, to be sure I have been in his company:—for want of finer acquaintance, madam, he was e'en forced to put up, half an hour, with an humble friend.
Julia. Poor fool! thy words are shrewder than thy meaning.
How many crowd the narrow space of life
With those gay, gaudy flowers of society,
Those annuals, call'd acquaintance; which do fade
And die away, ere we can say they blosom;
Mocking the idle cultivator's care,
From year to year; while one poor slip of friendship,
Hardy, tho' modest, stands the winter's frost,