Niece. Since you will run on, then I must needs tell you I am not satisfied in the point of my nativity. Many an infant has been placed in a cottage with obscure parents, till by chance some ancient servant of the family has known it by its marks.
Aunt. Ay, you had best be searched—That's like your calling the winds the fanning gales, before I don't know how much company; and the tree that was blown by it had, forsooth, a spirit imprisoned in the trunk of it.
Niece. Ignorance!
Aunt. Then a cloud this morning had a flying dragon in it.
Niece. What eyes had you, that you could see nothing? For my part I look upon it to be a prodigy, and expect something extraordinary will happen to me before night.... But you have a gross relish of things. What noble descriptions in romances had been lost, if the writers had been persons of your gout?
Aunt. I wish the authors had been hanged, and their books burnt, before you had seen 'em.
Niece. Simplicity!
Aunt. A parcel of improbable lies.
Niece. Indeed, madam, your raillery is coarse—
Aunt. Fit only to corrupt young girls, and fill their heads with a thousand foolish dreams of I don't know what.