Tat. I thank your good ladyship.
Wid. Is that the porter's paper of how d'ye's?
Tat. Yes, madam, he just sent it up. His general answer is, that you're as well as can be expected in your condition, but that you see nobody.
Wid. That's right. [Reading names.] Lady Riggle, Lady Formal—Oh! that Riggle, a pert ogler, an indiscreet silly thing, who is really known by no man, yet for her carriage, justly thought common to all; and as Formal has only the appearance of virtue, so she has only the appearance of vice. What chance, I wonder, put these contradictions to each other into the same coach, as you say they called? Mrs. Frances and Mrs. Winifred Glebe—who are they?
Tat. They are the country great fortunes have been out of town this whole year; they are those whom your ladyship said upon being very well born took upon 'em to be very ill bred.
Wid. Did I say so? really I think 'twas apt enough, now I remember 'em. Lady Wrinkle—oh, that smug old woman! There's no enduring her affectation of youth, but I plague her; I always ask whether her daughter in Wiltshire has a grandchild yet or not. Lady Worthy—I can't bear her company, she has so much of that virtue in her heart which I have in my mouth only. [Aside.] Mrs. After-Day—oh that's she that was the great beauty, the mighty toast about town—that's just come out of the small-pox; she's horribly pitted they say; I long to see her and plague her with my condolence. 'Tis a pure ill-natured satisfaction to see one that was a beauty unfortunately move with the same languor and softness of behaviour that once was charming in her—to see, I say, her mortify that used to kill—ha! ha! ha! The rest are a catalogue of mere names or titles they were born to, an insipid crowd of neither good nor bad; but you are sure these other ladies suspect not in the least that I know of their coming?
Tat. No, dear madam, they are to ask for me.
Wid. I hear a coach. [Exit Tat.] I've now an exquisite pleasure in the thought of surpassing my Lady Sly, who pretends to have out-grieved the whole town for her husband. They are certainly coming.—Oh no! here, let me—thus let me sit and think.
[Widow on her couch; while she is raving as to herself, Tattleaid softly brings in the ladies.]
Wretched, disconsolate as I am! Oh welcome, welcome, dear killing anguish! Oh, that I could lie down and die in my present heaviness—but what—how? Nay, my dear, dear lord, why do you look so pale, so ghastly at me? Wottoo, wottoo, fright thy own trembling, shivering wife——