The Full, True, and Particular Account of the Dreadful Quarrel Dreadful Quarrel
Husband. Woman—aye!
Wife. You are always railing at our sex.
Husband. And without reason?
Wife. Without either rhyme or reason; you’d be miserable beings without us, for all that.
Husband. Sometimes: there is no general rule without an exception; I could name some very good women—
Wife. Without the head, I suppose.
Husband. With a head, and with a heart too.
Wife. That’s a wonder!
Husband. It would be still greater if I could not; for instance, there is Mrs Dawson, the best of wives; always at home, whenever you call, always in good humour, always neat and clean, sober and discreet.
Wife. I wish you were tied to her. Always at home! the greatest gossiper in the parish; she may well smile, she has nothing to ruffle her temper; neat and clean—she has nothing else to do;—sober—she can take a glass as well as her neighbours; discreet—that’s another word, she can tip a wink: but I detest scandal; I am surprised you didn’t say she was handsome?
Husband. So she is, in my eye.
Wife. You have a fine eye, to be sure; you’re an excellent judge of beauty; what do you think of her nose?
Husband. She’s a fine woman in spite of her nose.
Wife. Fine feathers make fine birds; she can paint her withered cheeks, and pencil her eyebrows.
Husband. You can do the same, if you please.
Wife. My cheeks don’t want paint, nor my eyebrows pencilling.
Husband. True; the rose of youth and beauty is still on your cheeks, and your brow the bow of Cupid.
Wife. You once thought so; but that moving mummy, Molly Dawson, is your favourite. She’s, let me see, no gossip, and yet she’s found in every house but her own; and so silent too, when she has all the clack to herself; her tongue is as thin as a sixpence with talking; with a pair of eyes burned into the socket, and painted panels into the bargain; and then as to scandal—but her tongue is no scandal.
Husband. Take care, there’s such a thing as standing in a white sheet!
Wife. Curse you! you would provoke a saint.
Husband. You seem to be getting into a passion.
Wife. Is it any wonder? A white sheet! You ought to be tossed in a blanket. Handsome! I can’t forget that word: my charms are lost on such a tasteless fellow as you.
Husband. The charms of your tongue.
Wife. Don’t provoke me, or I’ll fling this dish at you head.
Husband. Well, I have done.
Wife. But I haven’t done: I wish I had drowned myself the first day I saw you.
Husband. It’s not too late.
Wife. I’d see you hung first.
Husband. You’d be the first to cut me down.
Wife. Then I ought to be tied up in your stead.
Husband. I’d cut you down.
Wife. You would?
Husband. Yes, but I’d be sure you were dead first.
Wife. I cannot bear this any longer.
Husband. Then ’tis time for me to withdraw; I see by your eyes that the storm is collecting.
Wife. And it shall burst on your head.
Husband. I’ll save my poor head, if I can. A good retreat is better than a bad battle.
(Husband flies, the dish flies after him.)
The Latest Particulars!
“We understand that a small hamper was left by a Railway porter, this morning, directed to the Husband, which was found to contain a full grown boy, about three weeks old, with a strawberry mark upon his left arm.
The wife, we are informed, has just ran away along with the Policeman with the big whiskers.