Doric. Would be as rational, as hopes of Gold from a Jugler's Crucible.—Doricourt's Wife must be incapable of improvement; but it must be because she's got beyond it.
Mrs. Rack. I am pleased your misfortune sits no heavier.
Doric. Your pardon, Madam; so mercurial was the hour in which I was born, that misfortunes always go plump to the bottom of my heart, like a pebble in water, and leave the surface unruffled.—I shall certainly set off for Bath, or the other world, to-night;—but whether I shall use a chaise with four swift coursers, or go off in a tangent—from the aperture of a pistol, deserves consideration; so I make my adieus. (Going.)
Mrs. Rack. Oh, but I intreat you, postpone your journey 'till to-morrow; determine on which you will—you must be this night at the Masquerade.
Doric. Masquerade!
Mrs. Rack. Why not?—If you resolve to visit the other world, you may as well take one night's pleasure first in this, you know.
Doric. Faith, that's very true; Ladies are the best Philosophers, after all. Expect me at the Masquerade.
[Exit Doricourt.
Mrs. Rack. He's a charming Fellow!—I think Letitia sha'n't have him. (Going.)
Enter Hardy.