Miss. Why, sell it, Madam, and buy a new one with some of the Money.
Col. ’Tis a Folly to cry for spilt Milk.
Lady Smart. Why, if Things did not break or wear out, how would Tradesmen live?
Miss. Well; I am very sick, if any body car’d for it.
Neverout. Come, then, Miss, e’en make a Die of it, and then we shall have a Burying of our own.
Miss. The Devil take you, Neverout, besides all small Curses.
Lady Answ. Marry, come up, What, plain Neverout! methinks you might have an M under your Girdle, Miss.
Lady Smart. Well, well, naught’s never in Danger; I warrant, Miss will spit in her Hand, and hold fast. Colonel, do you like this Bisket?
Col. I’m like all Fools; I love every Thing that’s good.