Jen. Why, madam, all that I can say——
Mrs. Cler. Nay, I believe, Jenny, thou hast nothing to say any more than the rest of thy country-women. The splenatics speak just as the weather lets 'em; they are mere talking barometers. Abroad the people of quality go on so eternally, and still go on, and are gay and entertain. In England discourse is made up of nothing but question and answer. I was t'other day at a visit, where there was a profound silence, for, I believe, the third part of a minute.
Jen. And your ladyship there?
Mrs. Cler. They infected me me with their dulness; who can keep up their good humour at an English visit? They sit as at a funeral, silent in the midst of many candles. One, perhaps, alarms the room—"'Tis very cold weather"—then all the mutes play their fans till some other question happens, and then the fans go off again.
Boy. Madam, your spinet-master is come.
Mrs. Cler. Bring him in; he's very pretty company.
Fain. His spinet is; he never speaks himself.
Mrs. Cler. Speak, simpleton! What then; he keeps out silence, does not he?—Oh, sir, you must forgive me; I have been very idle. Well, you pardon me. [Master bows.] Did you think I was perfect in the song? [Bows]—but pray let me hear it once more. Let us see it——[Reads.
Song.
With studied airs, and practised smiles,
Flavia my ravished heart beguiles;
The charms we make, are ours alone,
Nature's works are not our own;
Her skilful hand gives every grace,
And shows her fancy in her face.
She feeds with art an amourous rage,
Nor fears the force of coming age.
You sing it very well; but, I confess, I wish you'd give more in to the French manner—Observe me hum it à-la-Française.