Enter Foppington (who has been chatting to the ladies and who now seeks the post-dinner conversation of his host and Lord Morelove).
"FOPPINGTON. Nay, pr'ythee, Sir Charles, let's have a little of thee. We have been so chagrin without thee, that, stop my breath [what a bloodcurdling oath, so suggestive of the awful curses of our own jeunesse d'orée], the ladies are gone, half asleep, to church for want of thy company.
"SIR CHARLES. That's hard indeed, while your lordship was among 'em.
Is Lady Betty gone too?
"FOP. She was just upon the wing. But I caught her by the snuff-box, and she pretends to stay to see if I'll give it her again or no.
"MORE. Death! 'tis that I gave her, and the only present she ever would receive from me. [Aside to SIR CHARLES.] Ask him how he came by it?
"SIR CHARLES. Pr'ythee don't be uneasy. Did she give it to you, my lord?
"FOP. Faith, Charles, I can't say she did or she did not, but we were playing the fool, and I took it—à la—pshah—I can't tell thee in French, neither, but Horace touches it to a nicety—'twas Pignas direptum male pertinaci. [Nota Bene: Our modern comedians seldom quote Horace; their humour is not of the classic kind.]
"MORE. So! But I must bear it. If your lordship has a mind to the box,
I'll stand by you in the keeping of it.
"FOP. My lord, I'm passionately oblig'd to you, but I am afraid I cannot answer your hazarding so much of the lady's favour.
"MORE. Not at all, my lord; 'tis possible I may not have the same regard to her frown that your lordship has. [Here's a bit of human nature. Morelove stands in awe of that frown, but he doth valiantly protest, and that too much, that the displeasure of Lady Betty is no more to him than a dozen of ciphers.]