Mrs. Joyn. Through you virgins are married, or provided for as well; through you the reprobate's wife is made a saint; and through you the widow is not disconsolate, nor misses her husband.
Gripe. Through you—
Mrs. Joyn. Indeed you will put me to the blush.
Gripe. Blushes are badges of imperfection:—saints have no shame. You are—are the flower of matrons, Mrs. Joyner.
Mrs. Joyn. You are the pink of courteous aldermen.
Gripe. You are the muffler of secrecy.
Mrs. Joyn. You are the head-band of justice.
Gripe. Thank you, sweet Mrs. Joyner: do you think so indeed? You are—you are the bonfire of devotion.
Mrs. Joyn. You are the bellows of zeal.