Sav. Thy skull, Courtall, is a Lady's thimble:—no, an egg-shell.
Court. Nay, then you are gone too; you never aspire to similes, but in your cups.
Sav. No, no; I am steady enough—but the fumes of the wine pass directly through thy egg-shell, and leave thy brain as cool as——Hey! I am quite sober; my similes fail me.
Court. Then we'll sit down here, and have one sober bottle.—Bring a table and glasses.
Sav. I'll not swallow another drop; no, though the juice should be the true Falernian.
Court. By the bright eyes of her you love, you shall drink her health.
Sav. Ah! (sitting down.) Her I loved is gone (sighing.)—She's married!
Court. Then bless your stars you are not her Husband! I would be Husband to no Woman in Europe, who was not dev'lish rich, and dev'lish ugly.
Sav. Wherefore ugly?
Court. Because she could not have the conscience to exact those attentions that a Pretty Wife expects; or, if she should, her resentments would be perfectly easy to me, nobody would undertake to revenge her cause.