Cimb. Her forward chest.
Luc. Intolerable!
Cimb. High health.
Luc. The grave, easy impudence of him!
Cimb. Proud heart.
Luc. Stupid coxcomb!
Cimb. I say, madam, her impatience, while we are looking at her, throws out all attractions—her arms—her neck—what a spring in her step!
Luc. Don't you run me over thus, you strange unaccountable!
Cimb. What an elasticity in her veins and arteries!
Luc. I have no veins, no arteries.