Vict. Your servant, dearest.
Pen. But alas, madam, who patched you to-day? Let me see. It is the hardest thing in dress—I may say, without vanity, I know a little of it. That so low on the cheek pulps the flesh too much. Hold still, my dear, I'll place it just by your eye.—Now she downright squints. [Aside.
Vict. There's nothing like a sincere friend, for one is not a judge of one's self. I have a patch-box about me. Hold, my dear, that gives you a sedate air, that large one near your temples.
Pen. People, perhaps, don't mind these things. But if it be true, as the poet finely sings, that "all the passions in the features are," we may show or hide 'em, as we know how to affix these pretty artificial moles——
Vict. And so catch lovers, and puzzle physiognomy.
Pen. 'Tis true; then pray, my dear, let me put a little disdain in your face: for we'll plague this fop. There—that on your forehead does it.
Vict. Hold, my dear; I'll give indifference for him, a patch just at the point of your lip exactly shows it—and that you're dumb to all applications.
Pen. You wish I would be. [Aside.
Vict. There, my dear.
Pen. But, dear madam, your hair is not half powdered. Betty, bring the powder-box to your lady. It gives one a clean look (though your complexion does not want it) to enliven it.