Wit. Is that the way? Pray, madam, do you pin up your hair with all your letters? I find I must keep copies.

Milla. Only with those in verse, Mr. Witwoud. I never pin up my hair with prose. I think I tried once, Mincing.

Minc. O mem, I shall never forget it.

Milla. Ay, poor Mincing tift and tift all the morning.

Minc. ’Till I had the cramp in my fingers, I’ll vow, mem. And all to no purpose. But when your laship pins it up with poetry, it sits so pleasant the next day as anything, and is so pure and so crips.

Wit. Indeed, so crips?

Minc. You’re such a critick, Mr. Witwoud.

Milla. Mirabell, did you take exceptions last night? O ay, and went away—Now I think on’t I’m angry—no, now I think on’t I’m pleased—for I believe I gave you some pain.

Mira. Does that please you?

Milla. Infinitely; I love to give pain.

Mira. You would affect a cruelty which is not in your nature; your true vanity is in the power of pleasing.

Milla. O I ask your pardon for that—one’s cruelty is one’s power, and when one parts with one’s cruelty, one parts with one’s power; and when one has parted with that, I fancy one’s old and ugly.

Mira. Ay, ay, suffer your cruelty to ruin the object of your power, to destroy your lover—and then how vain, how lost a thing you’ll be? Nay, ’tis true: you are no longer handsome when you’ve lost your lover; your beauty dies upon the instant: For beauty is the lover’s gift; ’tis he bestows your charms— your glass is all a cheat. The ugly and the old, whom the looking-glass mortifies, yet after commendation can be flattered by it, and discover beauties in it: for that reflects our praises, rather than your face.

Milla. O the vanity of these men! Fainall, d’ye hear him? If they did not commend us, we were not handsome! Now you must know they could not commend one, if one was not handsome. Beauty the lover’s gift—Lord, what is a lover, that it can give? Why one makes lovers as fast as one pleases, and they live as long as one pleases, and they die as soon as one pleases: and then if one pleases one makes more.

Wit. Very pretty. Why you make no more of making of lovers, madam, than of making so many card- matches.

Milla. One no more owes one’s beauty to a lover, than one’s wit to an eccho: they can but reflect what we look and say; vain empty things if we are silent or unseen, and want a being.

Mira. Yet, to those two vain empty things, you owe two the greatest pleasures of your life.

Milla. How so?

Mira. To your lover you owe the pleasure of hearing yourselves praised; and to an eccho the pleasure of hearing yourselves talk.

Wit. But I know a lady that loves talking so incessantly, she won’t give an eccho fair play; she has that everlasting rotation of tongue, that an eccho must wait ’till she dies, before it can catch her last words.

Milla. O fiction; Fainall, let us leave these men.