Lover. I'll question thee before I go,— Come, answer me more apropos!
Echo. Poh! poh!
Lover. Tell me, fair nymph, if e'er you saw So sweet a girl as Phœbe Shaw.
Echo. Pshaw!
Lover. Say, what will turn that frisking coney Into the toils of matrimony?
Echo. Money!
Lover. Has Phœbe not a heavenly brow? Is not her bosom white as snow?
Echo. Ass! No!
Lover. Her eyes! was ever such a pair? Are the stars brighter than they are?
Echo. They are!