SIR BENJAMIN. True, uncle, it not only comes and goes but what's more egad her maid can fetch and carry it—
MRS. CANDOUR. Ha! ha! ha! how I hate to hear you talk so! But surely, now, her Sister, is or was very handsome.
CRABTREE. Who? Mrs. Stucco? O lud! she's six-and-fifty if she's an hour!
MRS. CANDOUR. Now positively you wrong her[;] fifty-two, or fifty-three is the utmost—and I don't think she looks more.
SIR BENJAMIN. Ah! there's no judging by her looks, unless one was to see her Face.
LADY SNEERWELL. Well—well—if she does take some pains to repair the ravages of Time—you must allow she effects it with great ingenuity—and surely that's better than the careless manner in which the widow Ocre chaulks her wrinkles.
SIR BENJAMIN. Nay now—you are severe upon the widow—come—come, it isn't that she paints so ill—but when she has finished her Face she joins it on so badly to her Neck, that she looks like a mended Statue, in which the Connoisseur sees at once that the Head's modern tho' the Trunk's antique——
CRABTREE. Ha! ha! ha! well said, Nephew!
MRS. CANDOUR. Ha! ha! ha! Well, you make me laugh but I vow I hate you for it—what do you think of Miss Simper?
SIR BENJAMIN. Why, she has very pretty Teeth.