Colonel S. You're a happy man, Sir Harry, who are never out of humour. Can nothing move your gall, Sir Harry?
Sir H. Nothing but impossibilities, which are the same as nothing.
Colonel S. What impossibilities?
Sir H. The resurrection of my father to disinherit me, or an act of parliament against wenching. A man of eight thousand pounds per annum to be vexed! No, no; anger and spleen are companions for younger brothers.
Colonel S. Suppose one called you a son of a whore behind your back.
Sir H. Why, then would I call him rascal behind his back; so we're even.
Colonel S. But suppose you had lost a mistress.
Sir H. Why, then I would get another.
Colonel S. But suppose you were discarded by the woman you love; that would surely trouble you.
Sir H. You're mistaken, Colonel; my love is neither romantically honourable, nor meanly mercenary; 'tis only a pitch of gratitude: while she loves me, I love her; when she desists, the obligation's void.