Mrs. Sul. A famous hand, sir.

[Here Aimwell and Dorinda go off.

Arch. A famous hand, madam!—Your eyes, indeed, are featured there; but where’s the sparking moisture, shining fluid, in which they swim? The picture, indeed, has your dimples; but where’s the swarm of killing Cupids that should ambush there? The lips too are figured out; but where’s the carnation dew, the pouting ripeness that tempts the taste in the original?

Mrs. Sul. Had it been my lot to have matched with such a man!

[Aside.

Arch. Your breasts too—presumptuous man! what, paint Heaven!—A propos, madam, in the very next picture is Salmoneus, that was struck dead with lightning, for offering to imitate Jove’s thunder; I hope you served the painter so, madam?

Mrs. Sul. Had my eyes the power of thunder, they should employ their lightning better.

Arch. There’s the finest bed in that room, madam! I suppose ’tis your ladyship’s bedchamber.

Mrs. Sul. And what then, sir?

Arch. I think the quilt is the richest that ever I saw. I can’t at this distance, madam, distinguish the figures of the embroidery; will you give me leave, madam?

Mrs. Sul. [aside]. The devil take his impudence!—Sure, if I gave him an opportunity, he durst not offer it?—I have a great mind to try.—[Going: returns.] ’Sdeath, what am I doing?— And alone, too!—Sister! sister!

[Runs out.

Arch. I’ll follow her close— For where a Frenchman durst attempt to storm, A Briton sure may well the work perform.

[Going.

Re-enter Scrub.

Scrub. Martin! brother Martin!

Arch. O brother Scrub, I beg your pardon, I was not a-going: here’s a guinea my master ordered you.

Scrub. A guinea! hi! hi! hi! a guinea! eh—by this light it is a guinea! But I suppose you expect one- and-twenty shillings in change?

Arch. Not at all; I have another for Gipsy.

Scrub. A guinea for her! faggot and fire for the witch! Sir, give me that guinea, and I’ll discover a plot.

Arch. A plot!

Scrub. Ay, sir, a plot, and a horrid plot! First, it must be a plot, because there’s a woman in’t: secondly, it must be a plot, because there’s a priest in’t: thirdly, it must be a plot, because there’s French gold in’t: and fourthly, it must be a plot, because I don’t know what to make on’t.

Arch. Nor anybody else, I’m afraid, brother Scrub.