Mrs. Sul. Oh, what a charm is flattery! if you would see my picture, there it is, over that cabinet—How d'ye like it?
Arch. I must admire any thing, madam, that has the least resemblance of you——But methinks, madam,—[He looks at the Picture and Mrs. Sullen Three or Four Times, by Turns.] Pray, madam, who drew it?
Mrs. Sul. A famous hand, sir.
[Exeunt Aimwell and Dorinda.
Arch. A famous hand, madam! Your eyes, indeed, are featured there; but where's the sparkling moisture, shining fluid, in which they swim? The picture, indeed, has your dimples, but where's the swarm of killing Cupids, that should ambush there? The lips too are figured out; but where's the carnation dew, the pouting ripeness that tempts the taste in the original?
Mrs. Sul. Had it been my lot to have matched with such a man! [Aside.
Arch. Your breasts too; presumptuous man! what! paint heaven! Apropos, madam, in the very next picture is Salmoneus, that was struck dead with lightning, for offering to imitate Jove's thunder; I hope you served the painter so, madam.
Mrs. Sul. Had my eyes the power of thunder, they should employ their lightning better.
Arch. There's the finest bed in that room, madam; I suppose 'tis your ladyship's bedchamber?
Mrs. Sul. And what then, sir?