Arch. Ay, my dear, take it while it is warm. [Kisses her.] Death and fire! her lips are honeycombs.
Cher. And I wish there had been a swarm of bees too, to have stung you for your impudence.
Arch. There's a swarm of Cupids, my little Venus, that has done the business much better.
Cher. This fellow is misbegotten, as well as I. [Aside.] What's your name, sir?
Arch. Name! egad, I have forgot it. [Aside.] Oh, Martin.
Cher. Where were you born?
Arch. In St. Martin's parish.
Cher. What was your father?
Arch. Of—of—St. Martin's parish.
Cher. Then, friend, goodnight.