you (says he), I’ll hamper you for that (says he), you and your old frippery too (says he), I’ll handle you—

Lady. Audacious villain! handle me, would he durst—Frippery? old frippery! Was there ever such a foul-mouthed fellow? I’ll be married to-morrow, I’ll be contracted to-night.

Foib. The sooner the better, madam.

Lady. Will Sir Rowland be here, say’st thou? when, Foible?

Foib. Incontinently, madam. No new sheriff’s wife expects the return of her husband after knighthood, with that impatience in which Sir Rowland burns for the dear hour of kissing your ladiship’s hand after dinner.

Lady. Frippery! superannuated frippery! I’ll frippery the villain; I’ll reduce him to frippery and rags: a tatterdemallion—I hope to see him hung with tatters, like a Long-Lane penthouse, or a gibbet-thief. A slander-mouthed railer: I warrant the spendthrift prodigal’s in debt as much as the million lottery, or the whole court upon a birthday. I’ll spoil his credit with his tailor. Yes, he shall have my niece with her fortune, he shall.

Foib. He! I hope to see him lodge in Ludgate first, and angle into Black-Fryars for brass farthings, with an old mitten.

Lady. Ay, dear Foible; thank thee for that, dear Foible. He has put me out of all patience. I shall never recompose my features to receive Sir Rowland with any oeconomy of face. This wretch has fretted me that I am absolutely decayed. Look, Foible.

Foib. Your ladiship has frowned a little too rashly, indeed, madam. There are some cracks discernible in the white vernish.

Lady. Let me see the glass—Cracks, say’st thou? Why, I am arrantly fleaed—I look like an old peeled wall. Thou must repair me, Foible, before Sir Rowland comes; or I shall never keep up to my picture.

Foib. I warrant you, madam; a little art once made your picture like you; and now a little of the same art must make you like your picture. Your picture must sit for you, madam.

Lady. But art thou sure Sir Rowland will not fail to come? Or will a not fail when he does come? Will he be importunate, Foible, and push? For if he should not be importunate—I shall never break decorums—I shall die with confusion, if I am forced to advance—Oh no, I can never advance—I shall swoon if he should expect advances. No, I hope Sir Rowland is better bred, than to put a lady to the necessity of breaking her forms. I won’t be too coy neither.—I won’t give him despair—but a little disdain is not amiss; a little scorn is alluring.

Foib. A little scorn becomes your ladiship.

Lady. Yes, but tenderness becomes me best—a sort of a dyingness—You see that picture has a sort of a—Ha, Foible? A swimmingness in the eyes—Yes, I’ll look so—my niece affects it; but she wants features. Is Sir Rowland handsome? Let my toilet be removed—I’ll dress above. I’ll receive Sir Rowland here. Is he handsome? Don’t answer me. I won’t know: I’ll be surprized. I’ll be taken by surprize.

Foib. By storm, madam. Sir Rowland’s a brisk man.

Lady. Is he! O then he’ll importune, if he’s a brisk man. I shall save decorums if Sir Rowland importunes. I have a mortal terror at the apprehension of offending against decorums. O I’m glad he’s a brisk man. Let my things be removed, good Foible.