Foresight.—No; St. Martin's-in-the-Fields.
Valentine.—Alas, poor man! his eyes are sunk, and his hands shrivelled; his legs dwindled, and his back bow'd. Pray, pray, for a metamorphosis—change thy shape, and shake off age; get the Medea's kettle and be boiled anew; come forth with lab'ring callous hands, and chine of steel, and Atlas' shoulders. Let Taliacotius trim the calves of twenty chairmen, and make the pedestals to stand erect upon, and look matrimony in the face. Ha, ha, ha! That a man should have a stomach to a wedding supper, when the pidgeons ought rather to be laid to his feet! ha, ha, ha!
Foresight.—His frenzy is very high now, Mr. Scandal.
Scandal.—I believe it is a spring-tide.
Foresight.—Very likely—truly; you understand these matters. Mr. Scandal, I shall be very glad to confer with you about these things he has uttered. His sayings are very mysterious and hieroglyphical.
Valentine.—Oh! why would Angelica be absent from my eyes so long?
Jeremy.—She's here, Sir.
Mrs. Foresight.—Now, Sister!
Mrs. Frail.—O Lord! what must I say?
Scandal.—Humour him, Madam, by all means.