paid him, and he sets in milk.

For Susan you know, is Thetis, and so--

BRISK. Incomparable well and proper, egad--but I have one exception to
make--don't you think bilk--(I know it's good rhyme)--but don't you think
_bilk_ and _fare_ too like a hackney coachman?

LADY FROTH. I swear and vow I'm afraid so. And yet our Jehu was a
hackney coachman, when my lord took him.

BRISK. Was he? I'm answered, if Jehu was a hackney coachman. You may
put that in the marginal notes though, to prevent criticism--only mark it
with a small asterism, and say, 'Jehu was formerly a hackney coachman.'

LADY FROTH. I will. You'd oblige me extremely to write notes to the
whole poem.

BRISK. With all my heart and soul, and proud of the vast honour, let me
perish.

LORD FROTH. Hee, hee, hee, my dear, have you done? won't you join with
us? We were laughing at my Lady Whifler and Mr. Sneer.

LADY FROTH. Ay, my dear, were you? Oh, filthy Mr. Sneer; he's a
nauseous figure, a most fulsamic fop, foh! He spent two days together in
going about Covent Garden to suit the lining of his coach with his
complexion.

LORD FROTH. O silly! yet his aunt is as fond of him as if she had
brought the ape into the world herself.

BRISK. Who, my Lady Toothless? Oh, she's a mortifying spectacle; she's
always chewing the cud like an old ewe.

CYNT. Fie, Mr. Brisk, eringo's for her cough.

LADY FROTH. I have seen her take 'em half chewed out of her mouth, to
laugh, and then put 'em in again. Foh!

LORD FROTH. Foh!

LADY FROTH. Then she's always ready to laugh when Sneer offers to speak,
and sits in expectation of his no jest, with her gums bare, and her mouth
open--

BRISK. Like an oyster at low ebb, egad. Ha, ha, ha!

CYNT. [_Aside_] Well, I find there are no fools so inconsiderable in
themselves but they can render other people contemptible by exposing
their infirmities.

LADY FROTH. Then that t'other great strapping lady--I can't hit of her
name; the old fat fool that paints so exorbitantly.

BRISK. I know whom you mean--but deuce take me, I can't hit of her name
neither. Paints, d'ye say? Why, she lays it on with a trowel. Then she
has a great beard that bristles through it, and makes her look as if she
were plastered with lime and hair, let me perish.

LADY FROTH. Oh, you made a song upon her, Mr. Brisk.

BRISK. He! egad, so I did. My lord can sing it.

CYNT. O good, my lord, let's hear it.

BRISK. '