Whi. Died.
Mat. Died, and I’ve never heard a word from him since.
Whi. Then he can’t complain if you’ve been inconstant.
Mat. ’Deed, and he can’t. It’s clear a young girl must marry somebody. It’s nature.
Enter O’Fipp.
Whi. Of course it is, and if he truly loves you—really and truly loves you as I do, he ought to be delighted when he comes back to find that you’ve engaged yourself to a gentleman in every way his superior.
O’Fi. Deloighted when he comes back? Divil a bit! By razin that he won’t come back any more!
Mat. Won’t come back any more?
O’Fi. Not he. Isn’t he dead, and haven’t we buried him, and paid his debts, and proved his will, and stuck up a tombstone that he’d blush to read. Sure, it’ll be in the highest degree ondacent in him to give the lie to a tombstone!