Frankton. How, in the name of sense, should I know how you feel?
Loveyet. Feel!—I feel that kind heaven, my friend, my father, and my dearest girl, all conspire to bless me!
Frankton. There he rides his hobby-horse again.
Loveyet. Aye, and a generous horse he is—he carries me very pleasantly, I assure you.
Frankton. Yes, and, I dare say, could convey you more agreeably and speedily to Paradise than the Ass did Mahomet.
Loveyet. Ha, ha. I think you have improved my idea.
Frankton. To improve your reason, and check your strange delirium, I have.
Loveyet. I will talk more dispassionately;—but my heart will palpitate at the thought of meeting the lovely source of its joy, and the ultimatum of all its wishes!
Frankton. I suppose you know she lives with Mr. Friendly.
Loveyet. With Mr. Friendly!