Niece. But what's the mild air?
Cler. The mild air is composed of a languish, and a smile—But, if I might advise, I'd rather be a pensive beauty; the pensive usually feels her pulse, leans on one arm, or sits ruminating with a book in her hand; which conversation she is supposed to choose rather than the endless importunities of lovers.
Hump. A comical dog!
Aunt. Upon my word he understands his business well; I'll tell you, niece, how your mother was drawn: she had an orange in her hand,[96] and a nosegay in her bosom, but a look so pure and fresh-coloured you'd have taken her for one of the Seasons.
Cler. You seem indeed, madam, most inclined to the pensive. The pensive delights also in the fall of waters, pastoral figures, or any rural view suitable to a fair lady who, with a delicate spleen, has retired from the world, as sick of its flattery and admiration.
Niece. No; since there is room for fancy in a picture, I would be drawn like the amazon Thalestris, with a spear in my hand, and an helmet on a table before me. At a distance behind let there be a dwarf, holding by the bridle a milk-white palfrey.
Cler. Madam, the thought is full of spirit, and if you please, there shall be a Cupid stealing away your helmet, to show that love should have a part in all gallant actions.
Niece. That circumstance may be very picturesque.
Cler. Here, madam, shall be your own picture, here the palfrey, and here the dwarf—The dwarf must be very little, or we shan't have room for him.