Peggy. What is your business, friend, with Mrs. Harry Lucas?
Fellow. I must speak to her her own self.
Lovel. My dearest widow, do you personate Mrs. Lovelace—for Heaven’s sake do you personate Mrs. Lovelace.
Wid. I personate Mrs. Lovelace, Sir! How can I do that?—She is fair; I am brown. She is slender: I am plump—
Lovel. No matter, no matter—The fellow may be a new-come servant: he is not in livery, I see. He may not know her person. You can but be bloated and in a dropsy.
Wid. Dropsical people look not so fresh and ruddy as I do.
Lovel. True—but the clown may not know that. ’Tis but for a present deception. Peggy, Peggy, call’d I, in a female tone, softly at the door. Madam, answer’d Peggy; and came up to me to the parlour-door.
Lovel. Tell him the lady is ill; and has lain down upon the couch. And get his business from him, whatever you do.
Away went Peggy.
Lovel. Now, my dear widow, lie along the settee, and put your handkerchief over your face, that, if he will speak to you himself, he may not see your eyes and your hair.—So—that’s right.—I’ll step into the closet by you.