Mincing. O mem, your La’ship staid to peruse a pacquet of letters.
Mrs. Millamant. O, ay, letters—I had letters—I am persecuted with letters—I hate letters—nobody knows how to write letters, and yet one has ’em one does not know why—they serve one to pin up one’s hair.
Witwoud. Is that the way? Pray, Madam, do you pin up your hair with all your letters? I find I must keep copies.
Mrs. Millamant. Only with those in verse, Mr. Witwoud, I never pin up my hair with prose. I think I try’d once, Mincing.
Mincing. O mem, I shall never forget it.
Mrs. Millamant. Ay, poor Mincing tift and tift all the morning.
Mincing. ’Till I had the cramp in my fingers, I’ll vow, mem. And all to no purpose. But when your Laship pins it up with poetry, it fits so pleasant the next day as anything, and is so pure and so crips.
Witwoud. Indeed, so crips.
Mincing. You’re such a critic, Mr. Witwoud.
Mrs. Millamant. Mirabell, did you take exceptions last night? O ay, and went away—now I think on’t, I’m angry—no, now I think on’t I’m pleas’d—for I believe I gave you some pain.