Dor. Mine kissed my hand ten thousand times.
Mrs. Sul. Mine has all that pleasure to come.
Dor. Mine spoke the softest moving things.
Mrs. Sul. Ay, ay, mine had his moving things too.
Dor. Mine offered marriage.
Mrs. Sul. O lard! d'ye call that a moving thing?
Dor. The sharpest arrow in his quiver, my dear sister; Why, my twenty thousand pounds may lie brooding here this seven years, and hatch nothing at last but some illnatured clown, like yours;—Whereas, if I marry my Lord Aimwell, there will be title, place, and precedence, the park, the play, and the drawing-room, splendour, equipage, noise, and flambeaux—Hey, my Lady Aimwell's servants there—lights, lights to the stairs—My Lady Aimwell's coach, put forward—stand by; make room for her ladyship——Are not these things moving? What! melancholy of a sudden?
Mrs. Sul. Happy, happy sister! your angel has been watchful for your happiness, whilst mine has slept, regardless of his charge——Long smiling years of circling joys for you, but not one hour for me! [Weeps.
Dor. Come, my dear, we'll talk of something else.
Mrs. Sul. O, Dorinda, I own myself a woman, full of my sex, a gentle, generous soul—easy and yielding to soft desires; a spacious heart, where love and all his train might lodge; and must the fair apartment of my breast be made a stable for a brute to lie in?