Vill. No woman ever praises another, unless she thinks herself superior in the very perfections she allows.
Flut. Nor no man ever rails at the sex, unless he is conscious he deserves their hatred.
Mrs. Rack. Thank ye, Flutter—I'll owe ye a bouquet for that. I am going to visit the new-married Lady Frances Touchwood.—Who knows her husband?
Flut. Every body.
Mrs. Rack. Is there not something odd in his character?
Vill. Nothing, but that he is passionately fond of his wife;—and so petulant is his love, that he open'd the cage of a favourite Bullfinch, and sent it to catch Butterflies, because she rewarded its song with her kisses.
Mrs. Rack. Intolerable monster! Such a brute deserves——
Vill. Nay, nay, nay, nay, this is your sex now——Give a woman but one stroke of character, off she goes, like a ball from a racket; sees the whole man, marks him down for an angel or a devil, and so exhibits him to her acquaintance.—This monster! this brute! is one of the worthiest fellows upon earth; sound sense, and a liberal mind; but doats on his wife to such excess, that he quarrels with every thing she admires, and is jealous of her tippet and nosegay.
Mrs. Rack. Oh, less love for me, kind Cupid! I can see no difference between the torment of such an affection, and hatred.
Flut. Oh, pardon me, inconceivable difference, inconceivable; I see it as clearly as your bracelet. In the one case the husband would say, as Mr. Snapper said t'other day, Zounds! Madam, do you suppose that my table, and my house, and my pictures!—A-propos, des Bottes. There was the divinest Plague of Athens sold yesterday at Langford's! the dead figures so natural, you would have sworn they had been alive! Lord Primrose bid Five hundred—Six, said Lady Carmine.—A thousand, said Ingot the Nabob.—Down went the hammer.—A rouleau for your bargain, said Sir Jeremy Jingle. And what answer do you think Ingot made him?