Dor. And well, sister.
Mrs. Sul. What's become of my lord?
Dor. What's become of his servant?
Mrs. Sul. Servant! he's a prettier fellow and a finer gentleman by fifty degrees than his master.
Dor. O' my conscience, I fancy you could beg that fellow at the gallows' foot.
Mrs. Sul. O' my conscience, I could, provided I could put a friend of yours in his room.
Dor. You desired me, sister, to leave you, when you transgressed the bounds of honour.
Mrs. Sul. Thou dear censorious country girl—What dost mean? You can't think of the man without the bedfellow, I find.
Dor. I don't find any thing unnatural in that thought.
Mrs. Sul. How a little love and conversation improve a woman! Why, child, you begin to live—you never spoke before.