Married Life: A Comedy, in Three Acts

by John Baldwin Buckstone

Lynx. True—’twas wrong in me to forget that few women can endure to hear another admired.

Mrs. Ly. And few men think their wives to be possessed of any superior charms to the first doll they may meet.

Lynx. Excellent, indeed—my love, we must turn authors; and between us, publish a book of conjugal aphorisms. However, I plead guilty to your first charge, and implore your mercy—proceed to the next.

Mrs. Ly. I think the last time we walked out with Mr. and Mrs. Coddle, that you might have offered me your arm, and not have left me to the care of the husband, while you flirted with the wife.

Lynx. What do you call flirting?

Mrs. Ly. Whispering—laughing—and affecting to have,—or really having, a quantity of interesting secrets.—Don’t ask me for a definition of the word, Sir—I am not a dictionary.

Lynx. I think you are, my dear—if I may judge by the hard words that you ever use to me.—Proceed with your charges, I beg—

Mrs. Ly. I heard of your being in a private box at the theatre two evenings since—and with some strange female.

Lynx. Your hearing such a report is no evidence of its truth.