Part 69 (1/2)

(_Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation_.)[69]

THE WAY OF THE WORLD

_Enter Mrs. Millamant, Witwoud, Mincing_

_Mirabell._ Here she comes, i'faith, full sail, with her fan spread and streamers out, and a shoal of fools for tenders; ha, no, I cry her mercy.

_Mrs. Fainall._ I see but one poor empty sculler; and he tows her woman after him.

_Mirabell._ (_To Mrs. Millamant._) You seem to be unattended, Madam--you us'd to have the beau monde throng after you; and a flock of gay fine perukes hovering round you.

_Witwoud._ Like moths about a candle,--I had like to have lost my comparison for want of breath.

_Mrs. Millamant._ Oh, I have denied myself airs today, I have walk'd as fast through the crowd--

_Witwoud._ As a favourite just disgraced; and with as few followers.

_Mrs. Millamant._ Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your similitudes; for I am as sick of 'em--

_Witwoud._ As a physician of good air--I cannot help it, Madam, though 'tis against myself.

_Mrs. Millamant._ Yet again! Mincing, stand between me and his wit.

_Witwoud._ Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before a great fire. I confess I do blaze today, I am too bright.

_Mrs. Fainall._ But, dear Millamant, why were you so long?

_Mrs. Millamant._ Long! Lord, have I not made violent haste? I have ask'd every living thing I met for you; I have enquir'd after you, as after a new fas.h.i.+on.

_Witwoud._ Madam, truce with your similitudes--no, you met her husband, and did not ask him for her.

_Mrs. Millamant._ By your leave, Witwoud, that were like enquiring after an old fas.h.i.+on, to ask a husband for his wife.

_Witwoud._ Hum, a hit, a hit, a palpable hit, I confess it.

_Mrs. Fainall._ You were dress'd before I came abroad.

_Mrs. Millamant._ Ay, that's true--O but then I had--Mincing, what had I? why was I so long?

_Mincing._ O mem, your La's.h.i.+p staid to peruse a pacquet of letters.

_Mrs. Millamant._ O, ay, letters--I had letters--I am persecuted with letters--I hate letters--n.o.body knows how to write letters, and yet one has 'em one does not know why--they serve one to pin up one's hair.

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

_Mrs. Millamant._ Only with those in verse, Mr. Witwoud, I never pin up my hair with prose. I think I try'd once, Mincing.

_Mincing._ O mem, I shall never forget it.

_Mrs. Millamant._ Ay, poor Mincing tift and tift all the morning.