kingdom. Why, she could decipher a prescription, and invent the
ingredients, almost as well as myself: then she was such a hand at
making foreign waters!--for Seltzer, Pyrmont, Islington, or
Chalybeate, she never had her equal; and her Bath and Bristol springs
exceeded the originals.--Ah, poor Dolly! she fell a martyr to her own
discoveries.

_O'Con_. How so, pray?

_Rosy_. Poor soul! her illness was occasioned by her zeal in
trying an improvement on the Spa-water by an infusion of rum and acid.

_O'Con_. Ay, ay, spirits never agree with water-drinkers.

_Rosy_. No, no, you mistake. Rum agreed with her well enough; it
was not the rum that killed the poor dear creature, for she died of a
dropsy. Well, she is gone, never to return, and has left no pledge of
our loves behind. No little babe, to hang like a label round papa's
neck. Well, well, we are all mortal--sooner or later--flesh is grass--
flowers fade.

_O'Con_. [_Aside_.] Oh, the devil!--again!

_Rosy_. Life's a shadow--the world a stage--we strut an hour.

_O'Con_. Here, doctor. [_Offers snuff_.]

_Rosy_. True, true, my friend: well, high grief can't cure it.
All's for the best, hey! my little Alexander?