Enter Sir Peter Teazle.
Sir Pet. Ladies, your most obedient.—[Aside,] Mercy on me, here is the whole set! a character dead at every word, I suppose.
Mrs. Can. I am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter. They have been so censorious—and Lady Teazle as bad as any one.
Sir Pet. That must be very distressing to you, indeed, Mrs. Candour.
Mrs. Can. Oh, they will allow good qualities to nobody: not even good nature to our friend Mrs. Pursy.
Lady Teaz. What, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. Quadrille's last night?
Mrs. Can. Nay, her bulk is her misfortune; and, when she takes so much pains to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect on her.
Lady Sneer. That's very true, indeed.
Lady Teaz. Yes, I know she almost lives on acids and small whey; laces herself by pulleys; and often, in the hottest noon in summer, you may see her on a little squat pony, with her hair plaited up behind like a drummer's, and puffing round the ring on a full trot.
Mrs. Can. I thank you, Lady Teazle, for defending her.