Oliv. Alas! 'tis for my woman only I wear 'em, cousin.
Let. If it be for me only, madam, pray do not wear 'em.
Eliza. But what d'ye think of visits—balls?
Oliv. O, I detest 'em!
Eliza. Of plays?
Oliv. I abominate 'em; filthy, obscene, hideous things.
Eliza. What say you to masquerading in the winter, and Hyde Park in the summer?
Oliv. Insipid pleasures I taste not.
Eliza. Nay, if you are are for more solid pleasures, what think you of a rich young husband?