PHOEBE. Please, sir.
VALENTINE. If not for your own sake, I ask you, Miss Phoebe, to do it for mine. In memory of the thoughtless recruit who went off laughing to the wars. They say ladies cannot quite forget the man who has used them ill; Miss Phoebe, do it for me because I used you ill.
PHOEBE. I beg you—no more.
VALENTINE (manfully). There, it is all ended. Miss Phoebe, here is my hand on it.
PHOEBE. What will you do now?
VALENTINE. I also must work. I will become a physician again, with some drab old housekeeper to neglect me and the house. Do you foresee the cobwebs gathering and gathering, Miss Phoebe?
PHOEBE. Oh, sir!
VALENTINE. You shall yet see me in Quality Street, wearing my stock all awry.
PHOEBE. Oh, oh!
VALENTINE. And with snuff upon my sleeve.