Husband. You can do the same, if you please.
Wife. My cheeks don’t want paint, nor my eyebrows pencilling.
Husband. True; the rose of youth and beauty is still on your cheeks, and your brow the bow of Cupid.
Wife. You once thought so; but that moving mummy, Molly Dawson, is your favourite. She’s, let me see, no gossip, and yet she’s found in every house but her own; and so silent too, when she has all the clack to herself; her tongue is as thin as a sixpence with talking; with a pair of eyes burned into the socket, and painted panels into the bargain; and then as to scandal—but her tongue is no scandal.
Husband. Take care, there’s such a thing as standing in a white sheet!
Wife. Curse you! you would provoke a saint.
Husband. You seem to be getting into a passion.
Wife. Is it any wonder? A white sheet! You ought to be tossed in a blanket. Handsome! I can’t forget that word: my charms are lost on such a tasteless fellow as you.
Husband. The charms of your tongue.
Wife. Don’t provoke me, or I’ll fling this dish at you head.