Wid. You have a proper gentleman to your son, my lord: he were fitter for this young lady than you.
Well. D'ye mark that again?
Fee. O sweet widow!
Count. He a wife! he a fool's head of his own.
Fee. No, of my father's.
Count. What should he do with a —— um, um!
Wife. What, with a cough? why, he would spit, and that's more than you can do.
Proudly. Your bride, my lord, is dead.
Count. Marry, ev'n God be with her; grief will not help it: um, um, um!