Lett. That’s not in Nature.
L. Youth. Like Nature! Ay, but Nature’s self wants Art, nor does this [Fontange] suit with my Complexion—put on a little more red, Lettice, on my Cheeks, and Lips. She does so.
Lett. Ay, for they are but a little too much upon the [Coventry-Blue]—This Tour must come more forward, Madam, to hide the Wrinkles at the corners of your Eyes— Pulls it.
L. Youth. Ay, Lettice, but there are others, that neither Tours, nor Paint, nor Patches will hide, I fear—yet altogether, Lettice— Puts on her Spectacles, and looks in the Glass.
Enter Sir Rowland.
Sir Row. What, no Bride yet, nor Bridegroom?
L. Youth. Ay, what can be the meaning of this?
Sir Row. But Teresia, Madam, where can she be gadding?
L. Youth. Why, Lettice tells me, she went to buy some Trifles to adorn her this Night—Her Governante is with her, and my Steward.
Enter Mr. Twang.