Brazen. Are you bewitched, my dear?
Kite. Yes, my dear! but mine is a peaceable spirit, and hates gunpowder. Thus I fortify myself: [Draws a Circle round him.] and now, captain, have a care how you force my lines.
Brazen. Lines! what dost talk of lines! you have something like a fishing-rod there, indeed; but I come to be acquainted with you, man—What's your name, my dear?
Kite. Conundrum.
Brazen. Conundrum? rat me! I knew a famous doctor in London of your name—Where were you born?
Kite. I was born in Algebra.
Brazen. Algebra! 'tis no country in Christendom, I'm sure, unless it be some place in the Highlands in Scotland.
Kite. Right—I told you I was bewitched.
Brazen. So am I, my dear! I am going to be married—I have had two letters from a lady of fortune, that loves me to madness, fits, cholic, spleen, and vapours——shall I marry her in four and twenty hours, ay or no?
Kite. Certainly.