Filch. Madam, here’s Miss Polly come to wait upon you.
Lucy. Show her in.
Enter Polly.
Dear Madam, your Servant.—I hope you will pardon my Passion, when I was so happy to see you last.—I was so over-run with the Spleen, that I was perfectly out of myself. And really when one hath the Spleen, every thing is to be excus’d by a Friend.
AIR XLVII. Now Roger, I’ll tell thee because thou ’rt my Son.
When a Wife’s in her Pout,
(As she’s sometimes, no doubt;)
The good Husband as meek as a Lamb,
Her Vapours to still,
First grants her her Will,
And the quieting Draught is a Dram. Poor Man!
And the quieting Draught is a Dram.
—I wish all our Quarrels might have so comfortable a Reconciliation.
Polly. I have no Excuse for my own Behaviour, Madam, but my Misfortunes.—And really, Madam, I suffer too upon your Account.
Lucy. But, Miss Polly—in the way of Friendship, will you give me leave to propose a Glass of Cordial to you?
Polly. Strong-Waters are apt to give me the Head-ache—I hope, Madam, you will excuse me.