Box. If you won’t believe me, I’ll refer you to a very large, numerous, and respectable circle of disconsolate friends.
Cox. My dear sir—my very dear sir—if there does exist any ingenious contrivance whereby a man on the eve of committing matrimony can leave this world, and yet stop in it, I shouldn’t be sorry to know it.
Box. Oh! then I presume I’m not to set you down as being frantically attached to your intended?
Cox. Why, not exactly; and yet, at present, I’m only aware of one obstacle to my doating upon her, and that is, that I can’t abide her!
Box. Then there’s nothing more easy. Do as I did.
Cox. [Eagerly.] I will! What was it?
Box. Drown yourself!
Cox. [Shouting again.] Will you be quiet, sir?
Box. Listen to me. Three years ago it was my misfortune to captivate the affections of a still blooming, though somewhat middle-aged widow, at Ramsgate.
Cox. [Aside.] Singular enough! Just my case three months ago at Margate.