_O'Con_. [_Aside_.] Ay, faith; in my opinion she can't do a
worse thing. Now he is going to bother me about an old hag that has
been dead these six years.

_Rosy_. Oh, poor Dolly! I never shall see her like again; such an
arm for a bandage--veins that seemed to invite the lancet. Then her
skin, smoothe and white as a gallipot; her mouth as large and not
larger than the mouth of a penny phial; her lips conserve of roses;
and then her teeth--none of your sturdy fixtures--ache as they would,
it was but a small pull, and out they came. I believe I have drawn
half a score of her poor dear pearls--[_weeps_]--But what avails
her beauty? Death has no consideration--one must die as well as
another.

_O'Con_. [_Aside_.] Oh, if he begins to moralize---[_Takes
out his snuff-box_.]

_Rosy_. Fair and ugly, crooked or straight, rich or poor--flesh
is grass--flowers fade!

_O'Con_. Here, doctor, take a pinch, and keep up your spirits.

_Rosy_. True, true, my friend; grief can't mend the matter--all's
for the best; but such a woman was a great loss, lieutenant.

_O'Con_. To be sure, for doubtless she had mental accomplishments
equal to her beauty.

_Rosy_. Mental accomplishments! she would have stuffed an
alligator, or pickled a lizard, with any apothecary's wife in the