CIB. Nay, sir, I bring my wit in exchange for your wine; we barter our respective superfluities.
QUIN. Good wine is no superfluity, Mr. Cibber; ’tis a necessary of life, just as much as good victuals.
SOAP. I vow Mr. Cibber is as lively as ever, and doesn’t look a day older: does he, Mr. Snarl?
SNARL. ’Tis that there’s no room on Mr. Cibber’s face for another wrinkle.
CIB. (takes snuff). Puppies!
QUIN. Really this is too bad, the coffee is getting cold (goes to table, R.).
CLIVE. So, no wonder Quin is getting warm—(gives him coffee). Here, bear! (Woffington presides over tea.)
CIB. You have a charming house here, Mr. Vane, I knew it in poor dear Lord Loungeville’s time. You may just remember him, Sir Charles?
POM. I never read ancient history.
CIB. Puppy! An unrivalled gallant, Peggy. Oh the petits soupers we have had here! Loungeville was a great creature, Sir Charles. I wish you may ever be like him.