Lady. In my conscience, Alpiew, this pretty creature’s spoiled.  Well, cousin, might I advise you should bestow your fortune in founding a college for the study of philosophy, where none but women should be admitted; and to immortalize your name, they should be called Valerians;—­ha! ha! ha!

     Val. What you make a jest of, I’d execute, were fortune in my
     power.

Her notices of married life are interesting, as she had great experience, having taken for her third husband Mr. Centlivre, cook to Queen Anne.  In “The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret,” we have the following dialogue upon this important subject: 

Col.  Britton. ’Egad, I think I must e’en marry, and sacrifice my body for the good of my soul; wilt thou recommend me to a wife, then—­one that is willing to exchange her moydores for English Liberty—­ha friend?

     Fred. She must be very handsome, I suppose?

     Col. The handsomer the better, but be sure she has a nose.

     Fred. Ay! ay! and some gold.

     Col. Oh, very much gold.  I shall never be able to swallow the
     matrimonial pill, if it be not well gilded.

     Fred. Puh, beauty will make it slide down nimbly.

Col. At first, perhaps it may, but the second or third dose will choke me.  I confess, Frederick, women are the prettiest playthings in nature; but gold, substantial gold gives ’em the air, the mien, the shape, the grace and beauty of a goddess.

     Fred. And has not gold the same divinity in their eyes, Colonel?

Col. Too often—­money is the very god of marriage, the poets dress him in a saffron robe by which they figure out the golden Deity, and his lighted torch blazons those mighty charms, which encourage us to list under his banner.

In “The Artifice” we have a matrimonial contention: 

     Lucy. If you two are one flesh, how come you to have different
     minds, pray, Sir?

     Watchit. Because the mind has nothing to do with the flesh.

     Mrs. W. That’s your mistake, Sir; the body is governed by the
     mind.  So much philosophy I know.

Wat. Yes, yes; I believe you understand natural philosophy very well, wife; I doubt not the flesh has got the better of the spirit in you.  Look ye, madam! every man’s wife is his vineyard; you are mine, therefore I wall you in.  Ods budikins, ne’er a coxcomb in the kingdom shall plant as much as a primrose in my ground.

     Mrs. W. I am sure your management will produce nothing but
     thorns.

     Wat. Nay, every wife is a thorn in her husband’s side.  Your whole
     sex is a kind of sweet-briar, and he who meddles with it is sure to
     prick his fingers.