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155 WILLIAM CDNGREVE [ACT III
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.
Bris^. He! egad, so I did:—my lord can sing it.
Cyn. 0, good my lord, let's hear it.
Bris\. 'Tis not a song neither;—it's a sort of an epigram,
or rather an epigrammatic sonnet; I don't know what to call
it, but it's satire.—Sing it, my lord.
Lord FROTH \ Sings.]
Ancient Phillis has young graces,
'Tis a strange thing, but a true one
Shall I tell you how?
She herself makes her own faces,
And each ,morning wears a new one;
Where's the wonder now!
Bris\. Short, but there's salt in't; my way of writing,
egad!
Enter FOOTMAN.
Lady Froth. How now?
Foot. Your ladyship's chair is come.
Lady Froth. Is nurse and the child in it?
Foot. Yes, madam. \Exit.
Lady Froth. O the dear creature! let's go see it.
Lord Froth. I swear, my dear, you'll spoil that child,
with sending it to and a^ain so often: this is the seventh
time the chair has gone for her to-day.
Lady Froth. O la! I swear it's but the sixth—and I ha'n't
seen her these two hours.—The poor dear creature!—I
swear, my lord, you don't love poor little Sappho.—Come,
my dear Cynthia, Mr. Brisk, we'll go see Sappho, though
my lord won't.
Cvn. I'll wait upon your ladyship.
Rris\. Prav, madam, how old is Lady Sappho?
Lady Froth. Three quarters; but'I swear she has a world
of wit, and can sing a tune already.—My lord, won't you go?
won't you? what, not to see Saph? pray, my lord, come see
little Saph. I knew you could not stay.
\Excunt Lord and Lady FROTH and BRISK.
Cyn. 'Tis not so hard to counterfeit joy in the depth of
affliction, as to dissemble mirth in company of fools.—Why