_Lau_. Psha! you know, mamma, I hate militia officers; a set of
dunghill cocks with spurs on--heroes scratched off a church door--
clowns in military masquerade, wearing the dress without supporting
the character. No, give me the bold upright youth, who makes love to-
day, and his head shot off to-morrow. Dear! to think how the sweet
fellows sleep on the ground, and fight in silk stockings and lace
ruffles.

_Mrs. Bri_. Oh, barbarous! to want a husband that may wed you to-
day, and be sent the Lord knows where before night; then in a
twelvemonth perhaps to have him come like a Colossus, with one leg at
New York, and the other at Chelsea Hospital.

_Lau_. Then I'll be his crutch, mamma.

_Mrs. Bri_. No, give me a husband that knows where his limbs are,
though he want the use of them:--and if he should take you with him,
to sleep in a baggage-cart, and stroll about the camp like a gipsy,
with a knapsack and two children at your back; then, by way of
entertainment in the evening, to make a party with the serjeant's wife
to drink bohea tea, and play at all-fours on a drum-head:--'tis a
precious life, to be sure!

_Lau_. Nay, mamma, you shouldn't be against my lieutenant, for I
heard him say you were the best natured and best looking woman in the
world.

_Mrs. Bri_. Why, child, I never said but that Lieutenant O'Connor
was a very well-bred and discerning young man; 'tis your papa is so
violent against him.