“In his dressing-room, and comes out young or old, a fop, a valet, a lover, or a hero, with voice, mien, and every gesture to match. A grain less than this may be good speaking, fine preaching, deep grunting, high ranting, eloquent reciting; but I'll be hanged if it is acting!”
“Then Colley Cibber never acted,” whispered Quin to Mrs. Clive.
“Then Margaret Woffington is an actress,” said M. W.; “the fine ladies take my Lady Betty for their sister. In Mrs. Day, I pass for a woman of seventy; and in Sir Harry Wildair I have been taken for a man. I would have told you that before, but I didn't know it was to my credit,” said she, slyly, “till Mr. Cibber laid down the law.”
“Proof!” said Cibber.
“A warm letter from one lady, diamond buckles from another, and an offer of her hand and fortune from a third; rien que cela.”
Mr. Cibber conveyed behind her back a look of absolute incredulity; she divined it.
“I will not show you the letters,” continued she, “because Sir Harry, though a rake, was a gentleman; but here are the buckles;” and she fished them out of her pocket, capacious of such things. The buckles were gravely inspected, they made more than one eye water, they were undeniable.
“Well, let us see what we can do for her,” said the Laureate. He tapped his box and without a moment's hesitation produced the most execrable distich in the language:
“Now who is like Peggy, with talent at will,
A maid loved her Harry, for want of a Bill?
“Well, child,” continued he, after the applause which follows extemporary verses had subsided, “take me in. Play something to make me lose sight of saucy Peg Woffington, and I'll give the world five acts more before the curtain falls on Colley Cibber.”