SIR PETER. No no Madam, you shall throw away no more sums on such
unmeaning Luxury--'Slife to spend as much to furnish your Dressing
Room with Flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the Pantheon
into a Greenhouse, and give a Fete Champetre at Christmas.

LADY TEAZLE. Lord! Sir Peter am I to blame because Flowers are dear
in cold weather? You should find fault with the Climate, and not
with me. For my Part I'm sure I wish it was spring all the year
round--and that Roses grew under one's Feet!

SIR PETER. Oons! Madam--if you had been born to those Fopperies
I shouldn't wonder at your talking thus;--but you forget what your
situation was when I married you--

LADY TEAZLE. No, no, I don't--'twas a very disagreeable one or
I should never nave married you.

SIR PETER. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a humbler
Style--the daughter of a plain country Squire. Recollect Lady Teazle
when I saw you first--sitting at your tambour in a pretty figured
linen gown--with a Bunch of Keys at your side, and your apartment
hung round with Fruits in worsted, of your own working--

LADY TEAZLE. O horrible!--horrible!--don't put me in mind of it!

SIR PETER. Yes, yes Madam and your daily occupation to inspect
the Dairy, superintend the Poultry, make extracts from the Family
Receipt-book, and comb your aunt Deborah's Lap Dog.