Sir Abel. So much the worse; for if I were ill, she wouldn't come near me.
Handy, jun. Then you are rich—
Sir Abel. So much the worse; for had I been poor, she would not have married me. But I, say, Bob, if you gain the prize, I'll have a patent for my plough.
Lady H. [Without.] Sir Abel! I say—
Handy, jun. Father, could not you get a patent for stopping that sort of noise?
Sir Abel. If I could, what a sale it would have!—No, Bob, a patent has been obtained for the only thing that will silence her—
Handy, jun. Aye—What's that?
Sir Abel. [In a whisper.] A coffin! hush!—I'm coming, my dear.
Handy, jun. Ha, ha, ha!
[Exeunt.