_Mrs. Sul._ Because they wanted money, child, to find out the pleasures of the town: Did you ever hear of a poet or philosopher worth ten thousand pounds? if you can show me such a man, I'll lay you fifty pounds you'll find him somewhere within the weekly bills. Not that I disapprove rural pleasures, as the poets have painted them in their landscapes; every Phyllis has her Corydon, every murmuring stream, and every flowery mead give fresh alarms to love----Besides, you'll find, their couples were never married:----But yonder, I see my Corydon, and a sweet swain it is, Heaven knows--Come, Dorinda, don't be angry, he's my husband, and your brother, and between both, is he not a sad brute? _Dor._ I have nothing to say to your part of him; you're the best judge. _Mrs. Sul._ O sister, sister! if ever you marry, beware of a sullen, silent sot, one that's always musing, but never thinks--There's some diversion in a talking blockhead; and since a woman must wear chains, I would have the pleasure of hearing 'em rattle a little.--Now you shall see; but take this by the way; he came home this morning, at his usual hour of four, waked me out of a sweet dream of something else, by tumbling over the tea-table, which he broke all to pieces; after his man and he has rolled about the room like sick passengers in a storm, he comes flounce into bed, dead as a salmon into a fishmonger's basket; his feet cold as ice, his breath hot as a furnace, and his hands and his face as greasy as his flannel night-cap----Oh matrimony! matrimony!----He tosses up the clothes with a barbarous swing over his shoulders, disorders the whole economy of my bed, and my whole night's comfort is the tuneable serenade of that wakeful nightingale, his nose.----O the pleasure of counting the melancholy clock by a snoring husband!----But now, sister, you shall see how handsomely, being a well-bred man, he will beg my pardon. _Enter_ SULLEN. _Sul._ My head aches consumedly. _Mrs. Sul._ Will you be pleased, my dear, to drink tea with us this morning? it may do your head good. _Sul._ No. _Dor._ Coffee, brother? _Sul._ Pshaw? _Mrs. Sul._ Will you please to dress, and go to church with me? the air may help you. _Sul._ Scrub! _Enter_ SCRUB. _Scrub._ Sir! _Sul._ What day o'the week is this? _Scrub._ Sunday, an't please your worship. _Sul._ Sunday! bring me a dram; and, d'ye hear, set out the venison pasty, and a tankard of strong beer upon the hall table, I'll go to breakfast. [_Going._ _Dor._ Stay, stay, brother, you shan't get off so; you were very naught last night, and must make your wife reparation: come, come, brother, won't you ask pardon? _Sul._ For what? _Dor._ For being drunk last night. _Sul._ I can afford it, can't I? _Mrs. Sul._ But I can't, sir. _Sul._ Then you may let it alone. _Mrs. Sul._ But I must tell you, sir, that this is not to be borne. _Sul._ I'm glad on't. _Mrs. Sul._ What is the reason, sir, that you use me thus inhumanly? _Sul._ Scrub!