Miss. Well, you have said your Say; if People will be rude, I have done; my Comfort is, ’twill be all one a thousand Year hence.
Neverout. Miss, you have shot your Bolt: I find, you must have the last Word.—Well, I’ll go to the Opera To-night.—No, I can’t neither, for I have some Business—and yet I think I must, for I promis’d to squire the Countess to her Box.
Miss. The Countess of Puddledock, I suppose.
Neverout. Peace, or War, Miss?
Lady Smart. Well, Mr. Neverout, you’ll never be mad, you are of so many Minds.
[——As Miss rises, the Chair falls behind her.——
Miss. Well; I shan’t be Lady-Mayoress this Year.
Neverout. No, Miss; ’tis worse than that; you won’t be marry’d this Year.
Miss. Lord! you make me laugh, tho’ I a’n’t well.