Ned.—Nobody but a silly maid she hired who can do nothing; I am fain as well as I can, to boil them their milk for their suppers and help to get them to bed.
Harry.—Does not she ask when she comes home how her children do, and who gave them their suppers and got them to bed?
Ned.—Never, never, Harry, but perhaps the next morning will get them up herself, and put them on, poor things, the same linen they had on three days before.
Harry.—How do you allow your wife? do you allow her so much a week? how gets she the money to spare for gossiping?
Ned.—Why, she watches me; and if I sell anything in the shop, then she comes to me and tells me, such a child wants this, and such a one that, so I am fain to give her money for quietness' sake.
Harry.—Why, Ned, she makes a mere fool of you.
Ned.—'Tis not my case alone, Harry, for most of my neighbours have not much better wives, for the better sort they say, love carding and gossiping and cold tea.
Harry.—Well, Ned, I think you have almost satisfied me, and I promise you for your sake I will never marry any one of that sort called chamber-maids.
Ned.—If ever you marry, Harry, marry one that's bred up in business, I mean one that knows how to look after her house? and as you endeavour to get a penny in your way she will endeavour to get another in hers, such a one will make both you and herself happy.
Harry.—Pray then, Ned, what can your wife or any other man's wife say against her husband if he takes all the pains, as you say you do, to maintain her and her children handsomely?