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—