Wor. Thou art a happy fellow: once I was so.
Plume. What ails thee, man? no inundations nor earthquakes, in Wales, I hope? Has your father rose from the dead, and reassumed his estate?
Wor. No.
Plume. Then you are married, surely?
Wor. No.
Plume. Then you are mad, or turning quaker?
Wor. Come, I must out with it.——Your once gay, roving friend, is dwindled into an obsequious, thoughtful, romantic, constant coxcomb.
Plume. And pray, what is all this for?
Wor. For a woman.
Plume. Shake hands, brother. If you go to that, behold me as obsequious, as thoughtful, and as constant a coxcomb, as your worship.