Fain. Indeed, madam, you begin to have so fine an hand, that you are younger every day than other.
Mrs. Cler. The ladies abroad used to call me Mademoiselle Titian, I was so famous for my colouring; but prithee, wench, bring me my black eyebrows out of the next room.[92]
Jen. Madam, I have 'em in my hand.
Fain. It would be happy for all that are to see you to-day, if you could change your eyes, too.
Mrs. Cler. Gallant enough—no, hang it, I'll wear these I have on; this mode of visage takes mightily. I had three ladies last week came over to my complexion. I think to be a fair woman this fortnight, till I find I'm aped too much—I believe there are an hundred copies of me already.
Jen. Dear madam, won't your ladyship please to let me be of the next countenance you leave off?
Mrs. Cler. You may, Jenny; but I assure you it is a very pretty piece of ill-nature, for a woman that has any genius for beauty to observe the servile imitation of her manner, her motion, her glances, and her smiles.
Fain. Ay, indeed, madam, nothing can be so ridiculous as to imitate the inimitable.
Mrs. Cler. Indeed, as you say, Fainlove, the French mien is no more to be learned than the language, without going thither. Then, again, to see some poor ladies who have clownish, penurious, English husbands, turn and torture their old clothes into so many forms, and dye 'em into so many colours, to follow me—What say'st, Jenny? What say'st? Not a word?