Ma. Prithee tell me, how many Women with Child have miscarried at the Sight of thee?

Pa. My Paleness shews I have no more Blood in my Body than a Ghost.

Ma. Indeed you are as pale as a Violet; You are as pale as a ripe Cherry, or purple Grape.

Pa. You coquet it with my Misery.

Ma. If you can’t believe me, look in the Glass.

Pa. I would never desire a better Glass, nor do I believe there is a better in the World than I am a looking in already.

Ma. What Looking-Glass do you mean?

Pa. Your Eyes.

Ma. You Banterer! that’s like you.  But how do you prove yourself to be dead?  Do dead Folks eat?

Pa. Yes, they do; but Things that have no Relish, as I do.

Ma. What do they feed upon?

Pa. Mallows, Leeks, and Lupines.

Ma. But you feed upon Capons and Partridges.

Pa. If I do, I relish them no more than Beets without Pepper or Vinegar.

Ma. Poor Creature! but yet you’re in pretty good Case, for all that.  And do dead Folks talk too?

Pa. Just as I do, with a weak Voice.

Ma. But when I heard you rallying your Rival a little While ago, your Voice was not very low then.  But, prithee, do Ghosts walk, wear Cloaths, and sleep?

Pa. Yes, and enjoy one another too, after their Manner.

Ma. Thou art a merry Fellow.

Pa. But what will you say, if I prove it by undeniable Arguments, that I am dead, and that you have kill’d me too.

Ma. God forbid, Pamphilus; but let’s hear your Arguments, however.

Pa. In the first Place, I think you will grant me this, that Death is only a Separation of Soul and Body.

Ma. I grant it.

Pa. But you must grant it so as not to eat your Words.

Ma. No, I will not.

Pa. You will not deny, I suppose, that the Person that takes away another’s Life, is a Murtherer.

Ma. I grant that too.

Pa. I suppose you will grant that which has been allow’d by the greatest Men of many Ages, that the Soul of a Man is not really where it animates, but where it loves.

Ma. Make that a little plainer, I can’t well understand it then.

Pa. You might as well bid me make an Adamant sensible of it.

Ma. I am a Maid, not a Stone.

Pa. Tis true, but harder than an Adamant Stone.

Ma. Go on with your Inferences.

Pa. Those that are in a Trance, do neither hear, nor see, nor smell, nor feel, if you kill them outright.

Ma. Indeed I have heard so.

Pa. What do you think is the Reason?

Ma. Do you, Philosopher, tell that.