Mira. Yes, I think the good lady would marry anything that resembled a man, though ’twere no more than what a butler could pinch out of a napkin.

Mrs. Fain. Female frailty! We must all come to it, if we live to be old, and feel the craving of a false appetite when the true is decayed.

Mira. An old woman’s appetite is depraved like that of a girl—’tis the green-sickness of a second childhood; and like the faint offer of a latter spring, serves but to usher in the fall; and withers in an affected bloom.

Mrs. Fain. Here’s your mistress.

SCENE V

[To them] Mrs, Millamant, Witwoud, Minoing.

Mira. Here she comes i’faith full sail, with her fan spread and streamers out, and a shoal of fools for tenders—Ha, no, I cry her mercy.

Mrs. Fain. I see but one poor empty sculler; and he tows her woman after him.

Mira. You seem to be unattended, madam,—you used to have the beau-mond throng after you; and a flock of gay fine perukes hovering round you.

Wit. Like moths about a candle—I had like to have lost my comparison for want of breath.

Milla. O I have denied myself airs to-day. I have walked as fast through the croud—

Wit. As a favourite just disgraced; and with as few followers.

Milla. Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your similitudes: for I am as sick of ’em—

Wit. As a physician of a good air—I cannot help it, madam, though ’tis against myself.

Milla. Yet again! Mincing, stand between me and his wit.

Wit. Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a skreen before a great fire. I confess I do blaze to-day, I am too bright.

Mrs. Fain. But, dear Millamant, why were you so long?

Milla. Long! Lord, have I not made violent haste? I have asked every living thing I met for you; I have enquired after you, as after a new fashion.

Wit. Madam, truce with your similitudes—No, you met her husband, and did not ask him for her.

Mira. By your leave, Witwoud, that were like enquiring after an old fashion, to ask a husband for his wife.

Wit. Hum, a hit, a hit, a palpable hit, I confess it.

Mrs. Fain. You were dressed before I came abroad.

Milla. Ay, that’s true—O but then I had—Mincing, what had I? Why was I so long?

Minc. O mem, your laship staid to peruse a pacquet of letters.

Milla. O ay, letters—I had letters—I am persecuted with letters—I hate letters—nobody knows how to write letters; and yet one has ’em, one does not know why—they serve one to pin up one’s hair.